-7 


I  (  > 


'     . 


Romcey  Pl 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


WILLIAM   COWPER,  ESQ. 


WITH 


A  MEMOIR  OF  THE  AUTHOR, 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON  AND   COMPANY. 

1857. 


MEMOIR 


OF 


WIILLIAM  COWPER. 


The  subject  of  this  brief  Memoir  was  the  descendant  of  an 
indent  and  honorable  family.  His  father  w;is  the  second 
sot-,  of  Spencer  Cowper  (a  younger  brother  of  the  lord  chan- 
cellor Cowper)  who  \vas  appointed  chief  justice  of  Che-it-r  in 
1717,  and  afterwards  a  judge  in  the  court  of  Common  Ple.-is. 
The  poet's  father  was  rector  of  Great  Berkhampstead,  in 
Hertfordshire,  at  which  place  William  was  born,  Nov.  26, 
1731  ;  and  from  his  infancy  he  appears  to  have  been  of  a  very 
delicate  habit  both  of  mind  and  body.  In  1737,  the  year  of 
his  mother's  death,  he  was  sent  to  a  school  at  M;irket-street, 
in  Hertfordshire,  under  the  conduct  of  Dr.  Pitman,  but  was 
removed  from  it  a  few  years  afterwards,  on  account  of  acorn- 
plaint  in  his  eyes,  for  v\hich  he  was  consigned  to  the  care  of  a 
female  oculist  for  the  space  of  two  years. 

Shortly  after  this  he  was  sent  to  Westminster  school,  where 
he  is  reported  to  have  suffered  much  from  the  wanton  tyranny 
of  his  schoolfellows,  who,  with  the  usual  unthinking  cruelty  o 
youth,  triumphed  over  the  gentleness  and  timidity  of  his  spir- 
it, so  that  in  his  advanced  years  he  retained  none  but  painful 
recollections  of  what  men  in  general  remember  with  more 
pleasure  than  any  other  period  of  their  lives,  and  these  recol- 
lections, no  doubt,  animated  his  pen  with  more  than  his  usual 
severity  in  exposing  the  abuses  of  public  schools. 

When  he  was  eighteen  years  of  age  he  left  Westminster- 
school,  and  was  articled  for  three  years  to  Mr.  Chapman,  an 
attorney;  in  whose  house  he  succeeded  in  gaining  the  esteem 
of  all  around  him,  by  the  gentleness  of  his  manners,  and  i  le 
amiability  of  his  temper,  but  suffering  deeply  from  that  inci- 
pient melancholy  which  had  taken  possession  of  his  ruin  1, 
and  with  an  utter  dislike  to  the  study  of  the  legal  profession. 

When  he  had  fulfilled  the  terms  of  his  engagement  with 
Mr.  Chapman,  he  entered  the  Temple  for  the  purpose  of  fin- 
ishing his  studies  as  a  barrister;  but,  like  many  other  men  of 
genius,  he  neglected  the  law,  and  gratified  the  bent  of  his 
mind  in  the  cultivation  of  poetry.  Indeed  he  appears  to  have 
aimed  at  the  character  of  a  literary  man,  in  the  general  sense 
«/  the  teim  ;  for  he  is  known  to  have  assisted  various  cotem 


• 


IV  MEMOIR   OF 

porary  \:  iblications  with  prose  essays  as  well  as  with  compo- 
sitions in  verse,  and  what  considering  his  meekness,  diffi- 
dence, and  purity  of  conduct,  is  certainly  remarkable — he  cul- 
tivated the  acquaintance  of  Churchill,  Thornton,  Lloyd,  and 
Colman,  who  had  been  his  schoolfellows  at  \Vestminster.  It 
is,  undoubtedly,  to  Churchill  and  Lloyd  that  he  alludes  in 
a  letter  to  Lady  Hesketh,  dated  September  4,  1765.  "Two 
of  my  friends  have  been  cut  off  during  my  illness,  in  the 
midst  of  such  a  life  as  it  is  frightful  to  look  upon  ;  find  I  re 
am  1  in  better  health  and  spirits  than  I  can  almost  remember 
to  have  enjoyed  before,  after  having  spent  months  in  the  ap- 
prehension of  instant  death.  How  mysterious  are  the  ways  of 
Providence!  Why  did  I  receive  grace  and  mercy?  Why 
was  I  preserved,  afflicted  for  my  good,  received,  as  I  trust  in- 
to favour,  and  blessed  with  the  greatest  happiness  1  can  ever 
know,  or  hope  for,  in  this  life,  while  these  were  overtaken  by 
the  great  arrest,  unawakened,  unrepenting,  and  every  way 
unprepared  for  it?" 

He  furnished  Colman  with  some  papers  for  the  "Connois- 
seur," and  contributed  to  various  other  periodicals  ;  but  so 
little  was  known  of  him  in  the  literary  world,  that,  on  the  ap- 
pearance of  his  first  volume  of  poems,  when  he  had  reached 
Ins  fiftieth  year,  he  was  looked  upon  as  a  new  writer,  But 
his  general  occupations  will  best  appear  in  an  extract  from 
one  of  his  letters  to  Mr.  Park,  in  1792.  "From  the  age  of 
twenty  to  thirty-three  (when  he  left  the  Temple),  I  was  occu- 
pied, 01  ought  to  have  been,  in  the  study  of  the  law;  from 
thirty-tin ee  to  sixty,  I  have  spent  my  time  in  the  country, 
where  my  reading  has  only  been  an  apology  for  idleness,  and 
where,  when  I  had  not  either  a  magazine  or  a  review,  I  was 
sometimes  a  carpenter,  at  others  a  bird-cage  maker,  or  a  <_r<ir- 
dener,  ora  drawer  of  landscapes.  At  fifty  years  of  age  I  com- 
menced author  ; — it  is  a  whim  that  has  served  me  longest  and 
best,  and  will  probably  be  my  last."  His  first  poetical  effort 
was  a  translation  of  an  ek'gy  of  Tibullus,  made  at  the  ape  of 
fourteen;  after  which  he  occasionally  displayed  his  poetical 
talents  in  the  composition  of  trifling  pieces  ;  but  as  lit.le  of 
bis  juvenile  poetry  has  been  preserved,  all  the  steps  of  his 
progress  to  that  perfection  which  produced  "The  Task,  '  can- 
not now  be  traced. 

In  1773  he  sunk  into  such  severe  paroxysms  of  religious  de^- 
pondency,  that  he  required  an  attendant  of  the  most  gentle,  vi- 
gilant, and  inflexible  spirit.  Such  an  attendant  he  found  in 
that  faithful  guardian  (Mrs.  Unwin),  whom  he  had  professed 
.to  love  as  a  mother,  and  who  watched  over  him  du 'ing  his 
malady,  which  extended  through  several  years,  with  that  per- 
fect mixture  of  tenderness  and  fortitude,  which  constitutes  the 
inestimable  influence  of  maternal  protection. 

His  recovery  was  slow  ;  and  he  knew  enough  of  his  malady, 


WILLIAM    COWPER.  V 

to  abstain  from  literary  employment,  while  his  mind  was  in 
any  degree  unsettled.  The  first  amusement  which  engaged 
his  humane  affections,  was  the  taming  uf  three  hares  ;  a  cir- 
cumstance that  would  scarcely  have  deserved  notice,  unless 
among  the  memoranda  of  natural  history,  if  he  had  not 
to  it  an  extraordinary  interest,  by  the  animated  account  he 
wrote  of  this  singular  family.  \Yhile  he  thus  amu>cd  him- 
self, his  friends  were  indefatigable  in  their  endeavours  to  pro- 
mote his  recovery;  and,  in  the  summer  of  177 8,  they  iiad  the 
gratification  of  seeing  their  attentions  rewarded  by  his  resto- 
ration to  health. 

Our  author  continued  to  amuse  himself  with  reading  stu-,t 
new  books  as  his  friends  could  procure,  with  writing  short 
pieces  of  poetry,  tending  his  tame  harts  and  birds,  and  dr  wing 
landscapes,  a  talent  which  he  discovered  in  himself  very  Lite 
in  life,  and  in  which  he  displayed  considerable  skill.  In  ;ill 
this,  perhaps,  there  was  not  much  labour,  but  it  was  not  idle- 
ness. A  short  passage  in  one  of  his  letters  to  the  Rev.  Wil- 
liam Unwin,  dated  May,  1780,  will  serve  to  mark  the  dis- 
tinction. "  Excellence  is  providentially  placed  beyond  the 
reach  of  indolence,  that  success  may  be  the  reward  of  indus- 
try, and  that  idleness  may  be  punished  with  obscurity,  and 
disgrace.  So  long  as  .1  am  pleased  with  an  employment,  I 
am  capable  of  unwearied  application,  because  my  feelings  are 
all  of  the  intense  kind.  1  never  received  a  little  pleasure 
from  anything  in  my  life  :  if  I  am  delighted,  it  is  in  the  ex- 
treme. The  unhappy  consequence  of  this  temperament  is, 
that  my  attachment  to  any  occupation  seldom  outlives  the  nov- 
elty of  it." 

Urged  by  his  amiable  friend  and  companion,  Mrs.  Unwin, 
he  employed  the  winter  of  1780-1,  in  preparing  his  first  vol- 
ume of  poems  for  the  press,  consisting  of  "  The  Table  Talk," 
"  Hope,"  "  The  Progress  of  Error,"  "  Charity,"  &c.  But 
such  was  his  diffidence  in  their  success,  that  he  appears  to 
have  been  in  doubt  whether  any  bookseller  would  be  willing 
to  print  them  on  his  own  account.  He  was  fortunate  enough, 
howevei,  to  rind  in  Mr.  Johnson  (his  friend  Mr.  Newton's 
publisher),  one  whose  spirit  and  liberality  immediately  set  his 
mind  at  rest.  The  volume  was  accordingly  published  in  1782, 
but  its  success  was  by  no  means  equal  to  its  merit ;  for,  as  Mr. 
Hayley  has  observed,  "it  exhibits  such  a  diversity  of  poetical 
powers  as  have  been  given  very  rarely  indeed  to  any  individual 
of  the  modern  or  of  the  ancient  world." 

Among  other  small  pieces  which  he  composed  at  the  sugges- 
tion of  Lady  Austen  was  the  celebrated  ballad  of  "  John  Gil- 
pin,"  the  origin  of  which  Mr.  Hayley  thus  relates  : — "  It  hap- 
pened one  afternoon  that  Lady  Austen  observed  him  sinking 
into  increasing  dejection  ;  it  was  her  custom,  on  these  occasions 
to  try  ail  the  resources  of  her  sprightly  \  rwers  for  his  imme- 

A  2 


VI  MEMOIR    OP 

diate  relief.  She  told  him  the  story  of  John  Gilpin  (which 
had  been  treasured  in  her  memory  from  her  childhood)  to  dis- 
sipate the  gloom  of  the  passing  hour.  Its  effect  on  the  fancy 
of  Covvper  had  the  air  of  enchantment:  he  informed  her  the 
next  morning,  that  convulsions  of  laughter,  brought  on  by  the 
recollection  of  her  story,  had  kept  him  awake  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  night,  and  that  he  had  turned  it  into  a 
ballad." 

The  public  was  soon  laid  under  a  far  higher  obligation  to 
Lady  Austen  for  having  suggested  our  author's  principal 
poem,  "  The  Task," — "a  poem,"  says  Mr.  Hayley,  "of  such 
C  infinite  variety,  that  it  seems  to  include  every  subject,  and 
every  style,  without  any  dissonance  or  disorder ;  and  10  have 
flowed  without  effort  from  inspired  philanthropy,  eager  to  im- 
press upon  the  hearts  of  all  readers  whatever  may  lead  them 
most  happily  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  human  life,  and  to  the 
final  attainment  of  Heaven."  This  admirable  poem  appears 
to  have  been  written  in  1783  and  1784,  but  underwear  many 
careful  revisions. 

In  November,  1784,  "The  Task,"  was  sent  to  press;  and 
he  began  the  "  Tirocinium,"  the  purport  of  which,  in  his  own 
words,  was  to  censure  the  want  of  discipline,  and  the  scandalous 
inattention  to  morals,  that  obtain  in  public  schools,  especially 
in  the  largest,  and  to  recommend  private  tuition  as  a  mode  of 
education  preferable  on  all  accounts ;  to  call  upon  fathers  to 
become  tutors  of  their  own  sons,  where  that  is  practicable,  to 
take  home  a  domestic  tutor,  where  it  is  not,  and  if  neither  can 
be  done,  to  place  them  under  the  care  of  some  rural  clergy- 
man, whose  attention  is  limited  to  a  few.  In  1785  this  work 
was  published  with  other  pieces,  which  composed  his  second 
volume,  and  which  soon  engaged  the  attention  and  admiration 
of  the  public,  in  a  way  that  left  him  no  regret  for  the  cool  re- 
ception and  slow  progress  of  his  first.  Its  success  also  ob- 
tained for  him  another  female  friend  and  associate,  Lady  Hes- 
keth,  his  cousin,  who  had  long  been  separated  from  him. 
Their  intercourse  was  first  revived  by  a  correspondence,  of 
which  many  interesting  specimens  are  given  in  Hayley's  Life 
of  Covvper,  and  of  which  it  is  there  said,  with  great  truth,  that 
"  Cowper's  letters  are  rivals  to  his  poems  in  the  rare  excellence 
of  representing  life  and  nature  with  graceful  and  endearing 
fidelity."  In  explaining  the  nature  of  his  situation  to  Lady 
Hesketh.  who  came  to  reside  at  Olney  in  the  month  of  June, 
17  8b',  he  informs  her,  that  he  had  lived  twenty  years  with  Mrs. 
Unwin,  to  whose  affectionate  caie  it  was  owing  that  he  lived 
at  all  -,  but  that  for  thirteen  of  those  years  he  had  been  in  a 
state  of  mind  which  made  all  her  care  and  attention  necessary. 
He  tells  her,  at  the  same  time,  that  dejection  of  spirits,  which 
niay  have  prevented  many  a  man  from  becoming  an  author, 
h  id  made  him  one.  He  found  employment  necessary,  ana 


WILLIAM    CO     M  r.  Mil 

therefore  he  took  care  to  be  constantly  employed.  Manual  oc- 
cupations, as  he  well  knew  by  experience,  do  not  engage  the 
nr^d  sufficiently  ;  but  composition,  especially  of  verse,  absorbs 
t  wholly.  It  was  his  practice,  therefore,  to  write  gent-rally 
three  hours  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  evening  he  transcribed. 
Hvj  read  also,  but  less  than  he  wrote,  for  bodily  exercise  w?is 
necessary,  and  he  never  passed  a  day  without  it.  All  this 
^hows  that  Cowper  understood  his  own  case  most  exactly,  and 
that  he  was  not  one  of  those  melancholies  who  give  themselves 
up  to  the  indulgence  of  hopeless  despair. 

At  length,  after  innumerable  interruptions,  the  translation  of 
Homer  was  sent  to  press,  and  published  in  two  volumes  quarto, 
in  1791  ;  yet,  notwithstanding  it  was  nearly  out  of  print  in  six 
months,  it  fell  short  of  the  expectations  formed  by  the  public 
and  of  the  perfection  which  he  hoped  he  had  att  dned  ;  so 
that  instead  of  printing  a  second  edition,  he  he^an,  at  no  long- 
distance of  time,  what  may  be  termed  a  new  translation.  To 
himself,  however,  his  first  attempt  had  been  of  great  advan- 
tage, nor  were  any  of  his  years  spent  in  more  general  tran- 
quillity, than  the  five  which  he  had  dedicated  to  Homer.  One 
of  the  greatest  benefits  he  derived  from  his  attention  to  this 
translation,  was  the  renewed  conviction  that  laber  of  this  kind 
was,  with  occasional  remissions,  absolutely  necessary  to  his 
health  and  happiness.  This  conviction  led  him  very  soon  to 
accede  to  a  proposal  made  by  his  bookseller,  to  undertake  a 
magnificent  edition  of  Milton's  works,  the  beauties  of  which 
had  engaged  his  wonder  at  a  very  early  period  of  life.  These 
he  was  now  to  illustrate  by  notes,  original  and  selected,  and  to 
translate  the  Latin  and  Italian  poems,  while  Mr.  Fuseli  was 
to  paint  a  series  of  pictures  to  be  engraved  by  the  first  artists. 
To  this  scheme,  when  yet  in  its  infancy,  the  public  is  indebted 
for  the  friendship  which  Mr.  Hayley  contracted  with  Cowper, 
and  which  eventually  produced  that  excellent  specimen  ot  bi- 
ography from  which  our  present  notice  is  mainly  derived. 

It  was  about  this  period  that  Messrs.  Boydell  published  a 
splendid  edition  of  Milton,  for  which  Mr.  Hayley  had  written 
"a  Life  ;"  and  being  represented  in  a  newspaper  as  the  rival 
of  Cowper,  he  immediately  wrote  to  him  on  the  subject.  Ccw- 
per  answered  him  in  such  a  manner  as  drew  on  a  closer  c->i- 
respondence,  which  soon  terminated  in  mutual  esteem  Mid 
cordial  friendship.  Personal  interviews  followed,  and  Mr. 
Hayley  has  gratified  his  readers  with  a  very  interesting  account 
of  his  first  visit  to  Weston,  and  of  the  return  by  Cowper  and 
Mrs.  Unwin  at  his  seat  at  Eastham  in  Sussex,  in  a  style  pe- 
culiarly affectionate.  On  Cowper's  journey  to  Eastham  he 
passed  through  London,  but  without  stopping,  the  only  time 
he  had  seen  it  for  thirty  years. 

In  the  year  1794  his  mind  began  rapidly  to  sink  into  a  most 
melancholy  state  of  despondency.  The  health  of  his  wattb- 


\III  JIEMOIR   OP 

ful  friend,  Mrs.  Unwin,  had  also  undergone  an  alarming  change, 
and  the  united  weight  of  time  and  sickness  had  brought  her 
to  the  last  stage  of  helpless  and  imbecile  old  age.  Mr.  Hay- 
ley  and  his  other  affectionate  acquaintances  continued  to  visit 
him  and  use  every  means  to  restore  his  health,  but  their  solici- 
tude was  vain,  and  he  continued  sunk  in  a  melancholy  which 
could  neither  be  removed  nor  alleviated.  It  was  at  length 
determined  to  try  the  experiment  of  a  change  of  air,  and  his 
amiable  relative,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Johnson,  took  upon  himself  the 
charge  of  conducting  him  into  Norfolk.  While  residing  at 
Dunham  Lodge,  and  afterwards  at  Mundsley,  his  spirits,  with 
slight  exceptions,  continued  in  the  same  state;  and  though 
an  occasional  glimpse  of  hope  now  and  then  encouraged  his 
desponding  friends,  they  at  length  saw  the  gradual  and  certain 
approaches  of  decay  under  the  most  distressing  circumstances 
in  which  death  can  visit  an  intellectual  and  reasoning  being. 
Cowper  had  continued  to  compose  several  minor  pieces  of 
poetry,  and  to  employ  himself  occasionally  in  reading  during 
some  time  past;  but  in  January,  1800,  has  strength  began  ra- 
pidly to  decline,  and  on  the  25th  of  April,  of  the  same  year, 
he  yielded  up  his  gentle  and  suffering  spirit. 

In  summing  up  the  character  of  Cowper,  a  cotemporary 
biographer  thus  writes  :  "  Among  the  few,  the  very  few,  who 
have  possessed  the  gift  of  a  spirit  full  of  the  sweetness  and 
the  music  of  poetry,  with  its  pure  morality  of  purpose,  is 
Cowper.  The  mind  of  its  admirable  writer  was  marked  with 
the  genuine  traits  which  distinguish  a  poetical  from  other 
minds.  He  is,  it  is  true,  not  to  be  compared  with  the  great 
masters  of  the  art,  whose  lofty  and  creative  imaginations  place 
them  in  a  sphere  of  their  own,  but  he  had  a  power  of  collect- 
ing the  scenes  and  harmonies  of  nature  into  the  focus  of  his 
cyjfcft  heart,  and  of  embuing  them  there  with  light  and  grace. 
He  had'  an  intensity  and  delicacy  of  feeling  which  made  him 
perceive  what  is  most  beautiful  in  the  complicated  character 
of  humanity,  and  he  had  that  intuitive  sense  of  the  mind's 
action,  which  enabled  him  to  present  to  others  the  objects  and 
sentiments  which  influence  with  the  greatest  strength.  By 
these  qualities  of  his  intellect,  by  the  tenderness  of  his  heart, 
and  the  extreme  susceptibility  of  his  nature,  he  was  possessed 
of  all  the  qualities,  with  the  exception  of  a  powerful  imagi- 
nation, which  form  the  character  of  a  poet;  and  in  being  de- 
nied the  stronger  excitements  of  fancy,  he  seems  to  have 
been  formed  by  Providence  to  produce  the  works  he  composed. 
He  was  endowed  with  all  the  powers  which  a  poet  could  want 
who  was  10  be  the  moralist  of  the  world — the  reprover,  but 
not  the  satirist  of  men — the  teacher  of  simple  truths,  which 
were  to  be  rendered  gracious  without  endangering  their  sim- 
plicity." 

lo  add  much  to  this  sketch  respecting  the  merit  of  Cowjjer 


WILLIAM    COWPER.  IX 

as  a  poet,  would  be  superfluous.  After  passing  through  the 
many  trials  which  criticism  has  instituted,  he  remains,  by  uni- 
versal acknowledgment,  one  of  the  first  poets  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Even  without  awaiting  the  issue  of  such  t:i;.ls.  he 
attained  a  degree  of  popularity  which  is  almost  without  a  pre- 
cedent, while  the  species  of  popularity  which  In-  has  arc-m.  t-rl 
is  yet  more  honorable  than  the  extent  of  it.  No  man's  works 
ever  appeared  witli  less  of  artificial  preparation;  no  \enai  lie- 
raids  proclaimed  the  approach  of  a  new  poet,  nor  told  ilu  wo;  Id 
what  it  was  to  admire.  He  emerged  from  obscurity,  the  ol 
of  no  patronage,  and  the  adherent  of  no  party.  His  fame, 
great  and  extensive  as  it  is,  arose  from  giadual  conviction, 
and  gratitude  for  pleasure  received.  The  genius,  the  scholar, 
the  critic,  the  devout  man,  and  tne  man  of  the  world,  each 
found  in  the  works  of  Cowper  something  to  excite  their  ad- 
miration, something  congenial  with  their  habits  and  feelings, 
something  which  taste  readily  selected,  and  judgment  deci- 
dedly confirmed. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

TALK  .     .  1 

Progress  of  Erroi      ...          17 

Truth •          30 

Expostulation      ....          43 

Hope 19 

Charity 76 

Conversation 90 

Retirement 109 

The  Yearly  Distress,  ft  Tith- 
ing Time  at  Stock  in  Ess_-x.  126 
Sonnet  to  Henry  Cowper' Esq.  128 
Lines  addri  sed  to  Dr.  Darwin    129 
On    Mrs.    .Montagu's   Feather- 
Hangings'    130 

Verses  supposed  to  be  written 
by  Alexanuer  Selkiik,  during 
his  atx.xle  in  the  island  of  Juan 

Fernandez 131 

On    the    promotion    of    Edward 
Thurlow,  Es(|.  to  tlie  Chancel- 
lorship of  England  .     .     .     133 
Oile  to  Peace        ....        Ibid 
Human  Fr-.ilty          .      .     .         134 
The  Modern     atriot      .     .         135 
On    observing   some    Names   of 
little  Note  reco-ded  in  the  Bio- 
graphia  Brittannica      .     .     136 
Report    of  an   adjudged  case, 
not  to  be  sound  in   any  of  the 
Hooks      ....'...    rbid 
On  the  Burning  of  Lord  Mans- 
fiel  :'s  Library      ....    137 

On  the  same 138 

The  Love  of  the  World  repro- 
ved      Ibid 

""  |j/On  the  Death  of  Lady  Throck- 

morton's  Bulnnch    .     .     .     139* 

The  Ro-e         141 

'!  h     'loves 142 

A  Fable 143 

A  Comparison      ....         144 
Anotner,  addressed  to  a  young 

Lady Ibid 

The  Poet's  New-Year's-Gif't,    145 
Ode  to  Apollo       ....         Ibid 
Pairing    Time    anticipated. 

A  Fable       ..>...     146 
The  Dog  and  the  Water  Lily.  148 
1'he  Poet,  the  OysterAaud   the 
Seaskivt  Plant      .     .     .       148 


PAOK 

The  Shrubbery    ....        151 
The  Winter  Nosegay    .     .        Ibid 
Mutual    Forbearance     necessa- 
ry to    the    Happiness    of   the 
Tarried  State.     .     .     .         152 

Negro's  Complaint     .         154*— 
Pity  for  poor  Africans  .     .         i55 
The  Morning  Dream          .         1.56 
"he    Nightingale    and    Glow- 
worm       157  • 

On    a    Goldfinch     starved    to 

Death  in  his  Cage  .  .  .  158 
The  Pineapple  and  the  Bee.  159 
Horace,  Book  II.  Ode  M.  lt,0 

A  reflection  on   the   foregoing 


Ode     .     .     . 
The  Lily  and  the  Rose 
Idem  Latine  Redditum 
The  Poplar  Field 
Idem  Latine  Redditum 
Votum         


161 

Ibid 

162 

163 

164 

Ibid 


TRANSLATIONS    FROM   VIN 
CENT   BOURNE. 

Cicindela 165 

The  Glow-worm        .     .     .         Ibid 

Cornicula         l'J6 

The  Jackdaw       ....         167 
Ad  Grillum.  Anacreonticum   168 

The  Cricket 159 

Simile  agit  in  Simile     .     .        170 

The  Parrot Ibid 

Translation  of  Prior's  Chloe 

,    and  Euphelia 171 

^'he  History  of  John   Gilpin      172*' 
Epistle  to  an  alllicted  Protes- 
tant Lady  in  France  .     .       178 
To  the  Rev.  W.  C.  Unwin.        180 

THE  TASK,  in  six  Books  :     "" 

Be  ok  I.  The  Sofa    .     .     .        181 

II.  The  Time-Piece          198 

III.  The  Garden    .     .        216 

IV.  The  Winter  Evening  234 
V.  The  Winter  Morning 

Walk 251 

VI.    The  Winter  Walk  at 
Noon 271 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


PAGE 

Episfle  to  Joseph  Hill,  Esq.    293 
Tirocinium ;  or    a  review  of 

Schools         295 

To  the  Reverend  Mi.  Newton  315 

Catharina 316 

The  Moralizer  Corrected  .  317 
he  Faithful  Bird.  .  .  319 
The  Needless  Alarm.  .  .  320 

Boadicea •        323 

eroism 324 

n  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother's 
Picture  out  of  Norfolk     .     326  f 

Friendship 330 

On.  a  Mischievous  Bull,  which 
the  Owner  of  him  sold  at  the 
Author's  Instance.  .     .     .    335 
Annus     Memorabilis,     1789. 
Written    in     Commemoration 
of  his  Majesty's   happy   Reco- 
very    336 

Hymn  for  the  Use   of  the  Sunday 
School  at  Olney.     .     .     .      338 
Stanzas  subjoined   to  a  Bill  of 

Mortality  for  the  year  1787  339 
On  a  similar  occasion  for  1788  341 
On  a  similar  occasion  for  1789  342 
On  a  similar  occasion  for  1 790  344 
On  a  similar  occasion  for  1792  345 
On  a  similar  occasion  for  1793  347 
Inscription  for  the  Tomb  of 

Mr.  Hamilton.     .     .     .      3-18 
The   Enchantment  Dissolved  249 
Light  Shining   out   of  Dark- 
ness         350 

Temptation 351 

To  Warren  Hastings,  Esq.        352 

To  Mary,  179/i 353-, 

On  the  ice   Islands  seen  float- 
ing in  the  German  Ocean.     354 

Cast-away 354? 

the    loss    of    the    Royal 
George.  .      .....         358» 

bonnet  to  Mrs.  Unwin.     .         359 
'ihe  Retired  Cat.      ...         361 

On  the    Shortness   of   Human 

Life 364 

Sonnet  to   Diodati,   from   the 

Italian 365 

Sonnet  to  a   Lady,   from   the 

Italian Ibid 

To  the  Nightingale     .     .          366 
To  William  Wilberforce.  367 

To  William  Hayley  Esq.  Ibid 

Verses  sent  to  Lady  Austen.    368 

Song  on  Peace Ibid 

Song  written  at  the  request  of 

Lady  Austen 369 

To  George  Romney,  Esq.          370 
To  my  Cousin  Ann  Bodham.  Ibid 
Epitaph  on  Johnson.     .     .        Ibid 
The  Hird's  Nest,    A  Tale.         371 
Fifth  Satire  of  the  First  Book 
of  Horace.         *    •    •    «    •     873 


Ninth  Satire  of  the  First  Book 
of  Horace 378 

TRANSLATIONS  0F 

THE    LATIN    AND    ITALIAN 

POEMS    OF    MILTON. 

Elegy  I.  To  Charles  Diodati.  382 

Elegy  II.  On  the  Death  cf  the 
University  Beadle  at  Cam- 
bridge. ." 384 

Elegy  III.    On  the    Death    of 
the  Bishop  of  Winchester.     385 

Elegy  IV.        To     his    Tutor 
Thomas  Young.     .     .     .       387 

Elegy   V.      On  the  Approach 
of  Spring 390 

Eiegy   VI.     To  Charles  Deo- 
dati 393 

Elegy    VII 395 

Epigrams.  On  the  Inventor  of 
Guns 398 

To   Leonora   Singing 

at  Rome Ibid 

-To  the  Same   .     .        399 


The  Cottager  and  his  Land- 
lord. A  Fable Ibid 

To  Christina,  Queen  of  Sweden, 
with  Cromwell's  picture.  .     Ibid 

On  the  Death  of  the  Vice- 
Chancellor.  A  Physician  400 

On  the  death  of  the  Bishop  of 
of  Ely 401 

Nature  unimpaired  by  Time.  403 

On  the  Platonic  Idea  as  it 
wasunderstood  by  Aristotle.  405 

To  his  Father 40(3 

To-Salsillus,  a  Roman  Poet, 
much  indisposed.  .  .  40£ 

To  Giovanni  Battista  Manso, 
Marquis  of  Villa.  .  .  411 

On  the  Death  oi 'Damon.     .      4H 

An  Ode  addressed  to  Mr.  Job  1 1 
Rouse,  Librarian  o.  the 
University  of  Oxford.  .  421 

Sonnet — "Fair  Laly!  whose 
harmonious  name"  .  .  -124 

Sonnet — "  As  on  a  hill  top 
rude," .•  Ibid 

Canzone— "They  mock  my 
toil" 42 

Sonnet — "  Lady  !  it  cannot  be 
but  that  thine  eyes"  .  .  Ibid 

'iRA    SLATIONS   FROM    THE 

FRENCH  OF  MADAME  DE  LA 

MOTHE  GUION. 

The  Natiyity 42« 

G(vJ  neither  known  nor  lover! 

by  the  World 430 

The  Swallow.       .    ,  431 


-(>-***) 


.  "7 


, 

!    £   I 


XII 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

The  Triumph  of  Heavenly  Love 
desired 432 

A  Figurative  Description  of 
the  Procedure  of  Divine 
Love Ibid 

A  Chihl  of  God  longing  to  see 
hiin  beloved 434 

Aspiration  of  the  Soul  after 
God 436 

Happy    Solitude — Unnappy 
Men 438 

Living  Water Ibid 

Truth  and  Divine  Love  rejected 
by  the  World 439 

Divine  Justice  amiable.     .        Ibid 

The  Soul  that  loves  God  finds 
him  every-where.  .  .  .  440 

The  Testimony  of  Divine 
Adoption 441 

Divine  Love  endures  no  rival  443. 

Self-diffidence 444 

The  acquiescence  of  Pure 
Love 445 

Repose  in  God.    ...»        Ibid 

Glory  to  God  alone.      .     .        446 

Self  love  and  Truth  incompa- 
tible   447 

The  Love  of  God,  the  End  of 
Life 448 

Love  faithful  in  the  Absence 


449 
Ibid 
450 
Ibid 
45 


of  the  Beloved. 
Love  pure  and  fervent. 
The  entire  Surrender. 
The  perfect  Sacrifice. 
God  hides  his  People. 
The   Secrets   of  Divine  Love 

are  to  l.e  kept.      .     .     .        432 
The   vicissitudes  experienced 

in  the  Ch  istian  Life.     .        456 
Watching   unto    God   in   the 

Night  Season 459 

On  the  Same.      *    •    .    •       460 


4(i2 
4<J3 


On  the  Same  ..... 
The  Joy  of  the  Cross.   . 
Joy  in  Martyrdom.  .     .     . 
The  Necessity  of  Self-  Abase- 

ment .......        4C6 

Love  increased  by  Suffering.    468 
Scenes  Favorable  to   Medita-      „ 

tion.    .     ,     .     .  469 


MINOR  POEMS. 

Verses  written  at  Bath,  on  find- 
ing the  Heel  of  a  Shoe.     .      471 
An  ode,    on    reading    Richard- 
son's   History   of  Sir  Tharles 
Grandison.    ...          .        472 
An    Epistle   to   Robert  Lloyd, 

£sq 473 

A    Tale     founded    on  a  Fact, 

which  happened  in  Jan.  1 773  475 
To  the    Rev.    Mr.  Newton,    on 
his  return  from  Ramsgate.     476 

Love  Abused 477 

The  Colubriad Ibid 

Verses  selected  from  an  Occa- 
sional Poem  entitled  Valedic- 
tion   478 

Lines  composed  for  a  memorial 

of  Ashley  Cowper,  Esq.   .        480 
On  the  Queen's  visit  to  London   I  L.c; 
To  Mrs.  Throckmorton.       .        482 
To  the  immortal  Memory  of  the 

Halibut  on  which  1  dined.  483 
Inscription  for  a  Stone.  .  4S4 
In  memory  of  the  late  John 

Thornton Ibir1 

The  Four  Ages 486 

^Epitaph  on  a  Hare.     .     .     .      487^ 
EJ  itaphium  Alterum      .     .        488 
Treatment  of  Hares        .    . 


COWPER'S  POEMS. 


TABLE  TALK. 

Si  te  fort&  meae  gravis  uret  sarcina  chartae, 
Abjicito.  Hor.  Lib.  i.  Epist.  18. 

A.  You  told  me,  I  remember,  glory,  built 
On  selfish  principles,  is  shame  and  guilt ; 
The  deeds,  that  men  admire  as  half-divine, 
Stark  naught,  because  corrupt  in  their  design. 
Strange  doctrine  this !  that  without  scruple  tears 
The  laurel,  that  the  very  lightning  spares  ; 
Brings  down  the  wariior's  trophy  to  the  dust, 
And  eats  into  his  bloody  sword  like  rust. 

B.  I  grant  that,  men  continuing  what  they  are, 
Fierce,  avaricious,  proud,  there  must  be  war: 
And  never  meant  the  rule  should  be  applied 

To  him,  that  fights  with  justice  on  his  side. 

Let  laurels,  drench'd  in  pure  Parnassian  dews, 
Reward  his  mem'ry,  dear  to  ev'ry  muse, 
Who,  with  a  courage  of  unshaken  root, 
In  honour's  field  advancing  his  firm  foot, 
Plants  it  upon  the  line  that  Justice  draws, 
And  will  prevail  or  perish  in  her  cause. 
'Tis  to  the  virtues  of  such  men,  man  owes 
His  portion  in  the  good  that  Heav'n  bestows 
And  when  recording  History  displays 
Feats  of  renown,  though  wrought  in  ancient  days; 
Tells  of  a  few  stout  hearts,  that  fought  and  died, 
Where  duty  plac'd  them,  at  their  country's  side ; 
The  man,  that  is  not  mov'd  with  what  he  reads, 
That  takes  not  fire  at  their  heroic  deeds, 
Unworthy  of  the  blessings  of  the  brave, 
Is  base  in  kind,  and  born  to  be  a  slave. 

But  let  eternal  infamy  pursue 
The  wretch,  to  nought  but  his  ambition  true 
Who,  for  the  sake  of  filling  with  one  blast 
The  post-horns  of  all  Europe,  lays  her  waste. 
Think  yourself  station'd  on  a  tow'ring  reck, 

B 


2  TABLE  TALK, 


p  a  people  scatter'  d  like  a  flock, 
Some  rovp.l  mastiff  panting  at  their  heels, 
With  all  the  savage  thirst  a  tiger  feels  ; 
TKen'vievhim  self-proclaim'd  in  a  gazette, 
Chief  monster  that  has  planned  the  nations  yet. 
The  globe  and  sceptre  in  such  hands  misplac'd, 
Those  ensigns  of  dominion,  how  disgrac'd  ! 
The  glass,  tliat  bids  man  mark  the  fleeting  hour, 
And  Death's  own  scythe  would  better  speak  his  pow'r  \ 
Then  grace  the  bony  phantom  in  their  stead, 
With  the  king's  shoulder  knot  and  gay  cockade  ; 
Clothe  the  twin  brethren  in  each  other's  dress, 
The  same  their  occupation  anJ  success. 

A.  'Tis  your  belief  the  world  was  made  for  man  ; 
Kings  do  hut  reason  on  the  self-same  plan  : 
Maintaining  yours,  you  cannot  theirs  condemn, 
Who  think,  or  seem  to  think,  man  made  for  them. 

B.  Seldom,  alas  !  the  pow'r  of  logic  reigns 
With  much  sufficiency  in  royal  brains  ; 
Such  reas'nino;  falls  like  an  inverted  cone, 
Wanting  its  proper  base  to  stand  upon. 

Man  made  for  king's!   those  optics  are  but  dim, 
That  tell  you  so  —  sav,  rather,  they  for  him. 
That  were  indeed  a  king-ennobling  thought, 
Could  they,  or  would  they,  reason  as  they  ought. 
The  diadem,  with  mighty  projects  liu'd, 
To  catch  renown  by  ruining  mankind, 
Is  worth,  with  all  its  gold  and  glittering  store, 
Just  what  the  toy  will  sell  for,  and  no  more. 
Oil  !   bright  occasions  of  dispensing  good, 
How  seldom  used,  how  little  understood  ! 
To  pour  in  Virtue's  lap  her  just  reward  ; 
Keep  Vice  restrain'd  behind  a  double  guard  ; 
To  quell  the  faction,  that  affronts  the  throne, 
By  silent  magnanimity  alone; 
To  nurse  with  tender  care  the  thriving  arts; 
Watch  eve'-y  beam  Philosophy  imparts; 
To  give  Religion  her  unbridled  scepe, 
Nor  judge  by  statute  a  believer's  hope  ; 
With  close  fidelity  and  love  unfeiyn'd, 
To  keep  the  matrimonial  bond  unstain'd  ; 
Covetous  only  of  a  virtuous  praise  ; 
His  life  a  lesson  to  the  land  he  sways  ; 
To  touch  the  sword  with  conscientious  awe, 
Nor  draw  it  but  when  duty  bids  him  dvaw  ; 
To  sheathe  it  in  the    peace-restoring  close, 
With  joy  beyond  what  victory  bestows:— 
Blest    ountry,  wlv  re  these  kingly  glories  sViinel 
Blest  England,  if  this  bappiness  .be  thine  1 


T  *  BLE   TALK.. 


/    (}\i  rd  whaf  you  sny;   the  patriotic  tribe 
Wi  1  sneer,  an  I  cha'^e  you  \vitb  a  bribe,     £.  A  bribe? 
T  ie  w  >rth  of  his  ihres  kingdoms  I  defy, 
To  I -ire  me  to  the  baseness  of  a  lie: 
\  i.l.  of  a.i  lies  (be  that  one  poet's  boast), 
I'hc  He-  that  H  tiers  I  abhor  tlie  most. 
T'u>-;  •  arts  !>••  theirs,  who  bate  bis  gentle  reign  ; 
Bur  he  that  lows  him  has  no  need  to  feign. 

A.  Your  smooth  eulogium  to  one  crown  addrest, 
See  MS  to  i-  ply  a  censure  on  the  rest. 

fi.  Quevedo,  as  he  tells  his  sober  tale, 
\sk'd  when  in  hell,  to  see  the  royal  jail  ; 
Anprov'd  their  nv-thod  in  al!  other  things; 
But  where,  good  sir,  do  you  confine  your  kings  ? 
Th  ire— said  his  guide— the  gr  up  is  full  in  view. 
In  i.,e.i  ?— replied  the  don  -there  are  but  few. 
His  bl  tck  interpreter  the  charge  disdain'd- 
1-V.v.  fell  >w  ? — there  are  all  that  ever  reiffn'd. 
\V;t.  tin  distinguishing,  is  apt  to  strike 
The  gu.Ky  and  not  guilty  both  alike  : 
i  Arrant  the  sarcasm  is  too  severe, 
And  we  c  in  readily  refute  it  here  ; 
NVhi'e  Alfred's  name,  the  father  of  his  age, 
And  the  Sixth  Edward's  grace  th'  historic  page. 

A.  Kin.^s  then,  at  last,  have  but  the  lot  of  all : 
By  their  own  conduct  they  must  stand  or  fall. 

~ R.  True.   While  they  live,  the  c  urtly  laureate  pav« 
His  quitrent  ode,  his  peppercorn  of  praise  ; 
And  many  a  dunce,  whose  fingers  itch  to  write, 
Adds,  as  "he  can.  his  tributary  mite. 
A  subject's" faults  a  subject  may  proclaim, 
A  monarch's  errors  are  forbidden  gums  ! 
Thus,  free  from  censure,  overaw  d  by  fear, 
And  praisM  for  virtues,  that  they  scorn  to  wear, 
The  fleeting  forms  of  majesty  engage 
Respect,  while  stalking  o'er  life's  narrow  stage  ; 
Then  leave  their  crimes  for  history  to  scan, 
And  ask,  with  busy  scorn,  Was  this  the  man  f 

I  ,)ity  kings  \\ho:n  Worship  waits  upon 
Obsequious  from  the  cradle  to  the  throne  ; 
Bet'o-e  whose  infant  eyes  the  flatt're>-  b  >vvs, 
And  binds  a  wreath  about  their  baby  brows; 
Whom  Education  stiffens  into  state, 
And  De;.th  awakens  from  that  dream  too  lace. 
O'i  !    if  Servility,  with  supple  knees, 
Whose  trade  it  "is  to  smile,  to  crouch,  to  please 
If  smooth  Dissimulation,  skill'd  to  grace 
A  devil's  purpose  with  an  .-reel's  face; 
»i  smilny  peeresses,  and  slmp'nng  peers, 


TABLE    TALK. 

Encompassing  his  throne  a  few  short  years; 
If  the  gilt  carnage  and  the  pamper'd  steed, 
That  wants  no  driving,  and  disdains  the  lead; 
If  guards,  mechanically  form'd  in  ranks, 
Playing,  at  be.it  of  drum,  their  martial  pranks, 
Should'ring  and  standing  as  if  struck  to  stone, 
While  condescending  majesty  looks  on  ! — 
If  monarchy  consists  in  such  hase  things, 
S    hing,  I  say  again,  I  pity  kings ! ' 

To  be  suspected,  thwarted,  and  withstood, 
E'en  when  he  labours  for  his  country's  good; 
To  see  a  band,  call'd  patriot  for  no  cause, 
But  that  they  catch  at  popular  applause, 
Careless  of  all  th'  anxiety  he  feels, 
Hook  disappointment  on  the  public  wheels ; 
With  all  thrir  flippant  fluency  of  tongue, 
Mo^t  confident,  when  palpably  most  wrong; — 
If  this  he  kingly,  then  farewell  for  me 
All  kingship ;  and  may  I  be  poor  and  free  I 

To  be  the  Table  Talk  of  clubs  up-stairs, 
To  which  th'  unwash'd  artificer  repairs, 
T'  indulge  his  genius  after  long  fatigue, 
By  diving  into  cabinet  intrigue 
( For  what  kings  deem  a  toil,  as  well  they  may, 
To  him  is  relaxation  and  mere  play)  ; 
To  win  no  praise  when  well-wrought  plans  prevail, 
B.it  to  be  rudely  censur'd  when  they  fail  ; 
To  doubt  the  love  his  fav'rites  may  pretend, 
And  in  reality  to  find  no  friend; 
Tf  he  indulge  a  cultivated  taste, 
His  gaU'ries  with  the  works  of  art  well  grac'd, 
To  hear  it  call'd  extravagance  and  waste ; 
If  these  attendants,  and  if  such  as  these, 
Must  follow  royalty,  then  welcome  ease  ; 
However  humble  and  confin'd  the  sphere, 
Happy  the  state,  that  has  not  these  to  fear. 

A.  Thus  men,  whose  thoughts  contemplative  have  dwelt 
On  situation?,  that  they  never  felt, 
Start  up  sagacious,  cover'd  with  the  dust 
Of  dreaming  study  and  pedantic  rust, 
And  prate  and  preach  about  what  others  prove, 
As  if  the  world  and  they  were  hand  and  glove. 
Leave  kingly  backs  to  cope  with  kingly  cares; 
They  have  their  weight  to  c  irry,  subjects  theirs  ; 
Poets,  of  all  men,  ever  least  regret 
Increasing  taxes  and  the  nation's  debt. 
Could  you  contrive  the  payment,  and  rehearse 
The  mighty  pi  in,  oracular,  in  verse, 
No  bard,  howe'er  majestic,  old  or  new, 


TABLE    TALK. 

Sh^ul  I  elaivr.  my  fix'd  attention  more  than  you. 
B.  N'>t  H  indley  nor  Bridgewater  womd  essay 
To  turn  the  course  of  ll"lic«n  that  way; 
N«»r  would  the  Nine  consent  the  sacred  tide 
Should  purl  amidst  tlie  traffic  of  Cheap^ide, 
Or  tinkle  in  'Change  Alley,  to  amuse 
The  leathern  e  rs  of  stockjobbers  and  Jews. 

A.  Vouchsafe,  at  least,  to  pitch  the  key  of  rhyme 
To  themes  more  pertinent,  if  less  sublime. 

When  ministers  and  ministerial  arts  ; 

Patriots,  who  love  (mod  places  at  their  hearts; 

\\  he  i  rtdmi.-als.  extoll'd  for  standing  still, 

Or  d>mg  nothing  with  a  dial  of  skill  : 

(ien'rals,  who  will  not  conquer  when  they  ni?y, 

Firm  friends  to  peace,  to  pleasure,  and  good  pay; 

When  Freedom,  wornded  almost  to  despair, 

Though  Discontent  alone  can  find  out  where; 

When  themes  like  th  se  en  ploy  the  poet's  tongue, 

I  hear  as  mute  as  if  a  syren  sung. 

Or  tell  me.  if  you  can,  what  pow'r  maintains 

A  Briton's  scorn  of  arbitrary  chains: 

That  were  a  theme  might  animate  the  dead, 

Ami  move  the  lips  of  poets  cast  in  lead. 

B.  The  cause,  tho'  worth  the  search,  may  yet  eludr 
Conjecture  and  remark,  however  slnewd. 

They  take  perhaps  a  well-directed  aim, 
Who  seek  it  in  his  climate  and  his  frame. 
Lih'ral  in  all  things  c-ise,  ye...  Nature  here 
With  stern  severity  deals  out  the  year. 
Winter  invades  the  spring,  and  olten  pours 
A  chilling  flood  on  summer's  drooping  rlow'rs 
Unwelcome  vapours  quench  autumnal  beams, 
Un^enial  blasts  attending  c"rl  the  streams  : 
The  peasants  urge  their  harvest,  ply  the  fork 
With  double  toil,  and  shiver  at  their  work  ; 
Thus  with  a  rigour,  for  his  good  design'd, 
She  rears  her  fav'rire  man  of  all  mankind. 
His  form  robust  and  of  elastic  tone, 
Proportion'd  well,  half  muscle  and  half  bone, 
Supplies  with  warm  activity  and  force 
A  mind  well-lodg'd,  and  masculine  of  course. 
Hence  Liberty,  sweet  Liberty  inspires 
And  keeps  alive  his  fierce  but  noble  rires. 
Patient  of  constitution,.!  control, 
He  bears  it  with  meek  manliness  of  soul ; 

But,  it'  Authority  grow  wanton,  woe 
To  him  that  treads  upon  his  free-born  toe 
One  step  beyond  the  bound')  y  of  the  laws 
Fires  him  at  once  in  Freedom's  glorious  cause, 

B  2 


6  TABLE  TALK. 

Thus  proud  Prerogative,  not  much  vever'd, 

Is  seldom  felt,  though  sometimes  seen  and  heard; 

And  in  his  cage,  like  parrot  fine  and  gay, 

Is  kept  to  strut,  look  big,  and  talk  away. 

Horn  in  a  climate  softer  far  than  ours, 
Not  fortn'd,  like  us,  with  such  Herculean  powr's, 
The  Frenchman,  easy,    debonair,  and  brisk, 
Give  him  his  lass,  his  fiddle,  and  his  frisk, 
Is  always  happy,  reign  whoever  may, 
And  laughs  the  sense  of  mis'ry  far  away. 
He  drinks  his  simple  bev'rage  with  a  gust; 
And,  feasting  ou  an  onion  and  a  crust, 
We  never  feel  th'  alacrity  and  joy 
With  which  he  shouts  and  carols  Vive  le  Roy, 
FilPd  with  as  much  true  merriment  and  glee, 
As  if  he  hea.d  his  king  say — Slave,  he  free. 

Thus  happiness  depends,  as  Nature  shows, 
Lets  on  exterior  things  than  most  suppose. 
Vigilant  over  all  that  he  has  made, 
Kind  Providence  attends  with  gracious  aid  ; 
Bids  equity  throughout  his  works  prevail, 
And  weighs  the  nations  in  an  even  scale  ; 
He  can  encourage  Slav'ry  to  a  smile, 
And  fill  with  discontent  a  British  isie. 

A.  Freemen  and  slave  then,  if  the  case  be  such, 
Stand  on  a  level ;  and  you  piove  too  much: 

If  all  men  indiscriminately  share 

His  fost'ring  pow'r,  and  tutelary  care, 

As  well  be  yok'd  by  Despotism's  hand, 

As  dwell  at  large  in  Britain's  charter'd  land. 

B.  No.     Freedom  has  a  thousand  charms  to  show 
That  slaves,  howe'er  contented,  never  know. 

The  mind  attains,  beneath  her  happy  reign, 

The  growth,  that  Nature  meant  she  should  attain; 

The  varied  fields  of  science,  ever  new, 

lOp'ning  and  wider  op'ning  on  her  view, 

She  ventures  onward  with  a  prosp'rous  force, 

While  no  base  fear  impedes  her  in  her  course. 

Heligion,  richest  favour  <;f  the  skies, 

Stands  most  reveal'd  before  the  freeman's  eyes; 

No  shades  of  superstition  blot  the  day, 

Liberty  chases  all  that  gloom  away; 

The  soul  emancipated,  unopprest, 

Free  to  prove  all  things,  and  hold  fast  the  best, 

Learns  much  ;  and  to  a  thousand  list'ning  minds 

Communicates  with  joy  the  good  she  finds: 

Courage  in  arms,  and  ever  prompt  to  show 

His  r^anly  forehead  to  the  fiercest  foe; 

Glorious  in  war,  but  for  the  sake  of  peace, 


TABLE    TALK- 

His  spirits  rising  as  his  toils  increase, 

Guar  Is  well  wliat  arts  and  industry  have  won, 

And  Freedom  claims  him  for  her  first-born  son, 

Slaves  fight  for  what  were  better  cast  away— 

The  chain  that  hinds  them,  and  a  tyrant's  sway; 

But  they,  that  fight  for  freedom,  undertake 

The  noblest  cause  mankind  can  have  at  stake : — 

Religion,  virtue,  truth,  whate'er  we  call 

A  blessing — freedom  is  the  pledge  of  all. 

O  Liberty  !  the  pris'ner's  pleasing  dream, 

The  poet's  muse,  his  passion,  and  his  theme; 

Genius  is  thine,  and  thou  art  Fancy's  nurse; 

Lost  without  thee  th'  ennobling  pow'rs  of  verse  ; 

Heroic  song  from  thy  free  touch  acquires 

Its  clearest  tone,  the  rapture  it  inspires: 

Place  me  where  Winter  breathes  his  keenest  air, 

And  I  will  sing,  if  Liberty  be  there  ; 

And  I  will  sing  at  Liberty's  dear  feet, 

In  Afric's  torrid  clime,  or  India's  fiercest  heat. 

A.  Sing  where  you  please ;  in  such  a  cause  I  grant 
An  English  poet's  privilege  to  rant; 

But  is  not  Freedom — at  least  is  not  ours 
Too  apt  to  play  the  wanton  with  her  pow'rs, 
Grow  freakish,  and,  o'erleaping  ev'ry  mound, 
Spread  anarchy  and  terror  all  around  ? 

B.  Agreed.     But  would  you  sell  or  slay  your  horse 
For  bounding  and  curvetting  in  his  course? 

Or  if,  when  ridden  with  a  careless  rein, 

He  break  away,  and  seek  the  distant  plain  ? 

No.     His  high  mettle,  under  good  control, 

Gives  him  Olympic  speed,  and  shoots  him  to  the  goal. 

Let  Discipline  employ  her  wholesome  arts  ; 
Let  magistrates  alert  perform  their  parts  ; 
Not  sculk  or  put  on  a  prudential  mask, 
As  if  their  duty  were  a  desp'rate  task  ; 
Let  active  Laws  apply  the  needful  curb, 
To  guaid  the  Peace,  that  Riot  would  disturb  ; 
And  Liberty,  preserv'd  from  wild  excess, 
Shall  raise  no  feuds  for  armies  to  suppress- 
"When  Tumult  lately  burst  his  prison-door. 
And  set  plebeian  thousands  in  a  roar ; 
When  he  usurp'd  Authority's  just  place, 
And  dar'd  to  look  his  master  in  the  face ; 
When  the  rude  rabble's  watchword  was — Destroy 
And  blazing  London  seem'd  a  second  Troy  ; 
Liberty  blush'd,  and  hung  her  drooping  head, 
Beheld  their  progress  with  the  deepest  dread  ; 
Blush'd,  that  effects  like  these  she  should  produce, 
Worse  than  the  deeds  of  galley-slaves  broke  loose. 


8  TABLE  TALK 

She  loses  in  such  storms  her  very  name, 

And  fi  rce  Licentiousness  should  bear  the  blame. 

Incomparable  gem  !   thy  worth  untold  ; 
Cheap  though  blood-bought,  and  thrown  away  when  sold: 
May  no  foes  ravish  thee,  and  no  false  friend 
Betray  thee,  while  professing  to  defend ! 
Prize  it,  ye  ministers;  ye  monarch's  spare ; 
Ye  patriots  guard  it  with  a  miser's  care. 

A.  Patriots,  alas!   the  few  that  have  been  found, 
Where  most  they  flourish,  upon  English  ground, 
The  country's  need  have  scantily  supplied, 

And  the  last  left  the  scene,  when  Chatham  died 

B.  Not  so— the  virtue  still  adorns  our  age. 
Though  the  chief  actor  died  upon  the  stage. 
In  him  Demosthenes  was  heard  again  ; 
Liberty  taught  him  her  Athenian  strain  ; 
She  cloth'd  him  with  authority  and  awe, 
Spoke  from  his  lips,  and  in  his  looks  gave  law. 
His  speech,  his  form,  his  action,  full  of  grace, 
And  all  his  country  beaming  in  his  face, 

He  stood,  as  some  inimitable  hand 

Would  sirive  to  make  a  Paul  or  Tully  stand. 

No  Sycophant  or  slave,  that  dar'd  oppose 

Her  sacred  cause,  but  trembled  when  he  rose; 

And  ev'ry  venal  stickler  for  the  yoke 

Felt  himself  crush'd  at  the  first  word  he  spoke. 

Such  men  are  rais'd  to  station  and  command, 
When  Providence  means  mercy  to  a  land. 
He  speaks,  and  they  appear ;  to  him  they  owe 
Skill  to  direct,  and  strength  to  strike  the  blow ; 
To  manage  with  address,  to  seize  with  pow'r, 
The  crisis  of  a  dark  decisive  hour  : 
So  Gideon  earned  a  vict'ry  not  his  own  ; 
Subserviency  his  praise,  and  that  alone. 

Poor  England !  thou  art  a  devoted  deer, 
Beset  with  ev'ry  ill  but  that  of  fear. 
The  nations  hunt ;  all  mark  thee  for  a  prey  ; 
They  swarm  around  thee,  and  thou  stand'st  at  bay, 
Undaunted  still,  though  wearied  and  perplex'd  ; 
Once  Chatham  sav'd  thee;  but  who  saves  thee  next? 
Alas!   the  tide  of  pleasure  sweeps  along 
All,  that  should  be  the  boast  of  British  song. 
'Tis  not  the  wreath,  that  once  adorn'd  thy  brow, 
The  pri/e  of  happier  times,  will  serve  thee  now. 
Our  ancestry,  a  gallant  Christian  race, 
Patterns  of  ev'ry  virtue,  ev'ry  grace, 
Confess  d  a  God ;  they  kneel'd  before  they  fought, 
And  prais'd  him  in  the  victories  he  wrought. 
Now  frail  the  dust  of  ancient  days  bring  forth 


TABLE    TALK. 

Their  sober  zeal,  integrity,  and  worth  ; 

Courage,  ungrac'd  by  these,  affronts  the  skies, 

Is  but°the  fire  without  the  sacrifice. 

The  stream,  that  feeds  the  well-spring  of  the  heart, 

Not  more  invigorates  life's  noblest  part, 

Than  Virtue  quickens,  with  a  warmth  divine, 

The  pow'rs,  that  Sin  has  brought  to  a  decline. 

A.  Tli'  inestimable  Estimate  of  Brown 
Rose  like  a  paper-kite,  and  charm'd  the  town  ; 
But  measures,  plann'd  and  executed  well, 
Shifted  the  wind  that  rais'd  it,  and  it  fell. 

He  trod  the  very  self-same  ground  you  tread, 
And  Victory  refuted  all  he  said. 

B.  And  yet  his  judgment  was  not  fram'd  amiss  • 
Its  error,  if  it  err'd,  was  merely  this — 

He  thought  the  dying  hour  already  come, 
And  a  complete  recovery  struck  him  dumb. 

But  that  effeminacy,  folly,  lust, 
Enervate  and  enfeeble,  and  needs  must  ; 
And  that  a  nation  shamefully  debas'd, 
Will  be  despis'd  and  trampled  on  at  last, 
Unless  sweet  Penitence  her  pow'rs  renew; 
Is  truth,  if  history  itself  be  true. 
Thdfe  is  a  time,  and  Justice  marks  the  date, 
For  long-forbearing  Clemency  to  wait ; 
That  hour  elaps'd,  th'  incurable  revolt 
Is  punish'd,  and  down  comes  the  thunderbolt. 
If  Mercy  then  put  by  the  threat'ning  blow, 
Must  she  perform  the  same  kind  office  now  ? 
May  she  !  and,  if  offended  Heav'n  be  still 
Accessible,  and  pray'r  prevail  she  will. 
'Tis  not,  however,  insolence  and  noise, 
Thejtempest  of  tumultuary  joys, 
Nor  is  it  yet  despondence  and  dismay 
Will  win  her  visits,  or  engage  her  stay ; 
Pray'r  only,  and  the  penitential  tear, 
Can  call  her  smiling  down,  and  fix  her  here. 

But  when  a  country  (one  that  I  could  name) 
In  prostitution  sinks  the  sense  of  shame  ; 
When  infamous  Venality,  grown  bold, 
Writes  on  his  bosom  to  be  let  or  sold ; 
When  Perjury,  that  Heav'n-defying  vice, 
Sells  oaths  by  tale,  and  at  the  lowest  price  ; 
Stamps  God's  own  name  upon  a  lie  just  made, 
To  turn  a  penny  in  the  way  of  trade  ; 
When  Av'rice  starves  (and  never  hides  his  iace) 
Two  or  three  millions  of  the  human  race, 
And  not  a  tongue  inquires,  how,  where,  or  when, 
Though  conscience  will  have  twinges  now  and  then ; 


10  TABLE  TALK. 

When  profanation  of  the  sacred  cai^e 

In  all  its  parts,  times,  ministry,  and 

Bespeaks  a  (aid,  once  Christian,  fall'n  arid  lost, 

In  all,  that  wars  against  that  title  most; 

What  follows  next  let  cities  of  great  na^.e, 

And  regions  long  since  desolate  proclaim. 

Nineveh,  Babylon,  and  ancient  Koine, 

Speak  to  the  present  times,  and  times  to  come; 

They  cry  aloud  in  ev'ry  careless  ear, 

Stop,  while  ye  may;  suspend  your  mad  career; 

O  learn  from  our  example  «.nd  our  fate, 

Learn  wisdom  and  repentance,  ere  too  late. 

Not  oiiiy  vice  disposes  and  prepares 
The  Mind,  that  slumbers  sweetly  in  her  snares. 
To  stoop  to  Tyranny's  usu  p'd  command, 
And  bend  her  polish'd  neck  beneath  his  hand, 
(A  dire  effect,  by  one  of  Nature's  laws, 
Unchangeably  connected  with  its  cause); 
But  Providence  himself  will  intervene, 
To  throw  his  dark  displeasure  o'er  the  scene. 
All  are  his  instruments  ;  each  form  of  war, 
What  burns  at  home,  or  threatens  from  afar, 
Nature  in  arms,  her  elements  at -strife, 
The  storms,  that  overset  the  joys  of  life,  % 

Are  but  his  rods  to  scourge  a  guilty  land, 
And  waste  it  at  the  bidding  of  his  hand. 
He  givts  the  woid,  and  Mutiny  soon  roars 
In  all  her  gates,  and  shakes  her  distant  shores ; 
The  standards  of  all  nations  are  Uhfuil'd  ; 
She  has  one  t\  e,  and  that  one  foe  the  world: 
And,  if  he  doom  that  people  with  a  fiown. 
And  mark  them  witli  a  seal  of  wrath  press'd  down, 
Obduracy  takes  place  ;  callous  and  tough, 
The  reprobated  race  grows  judgment-proof : 
Earth  shakes  beneath  them,  and  Heav'n  roa'-s  above; 
But  nothing  scares  them  from  the  course  they  love. 
To  the  lascivious  pipe  and  wanton  song, 
That  charm  down  tear,  they  frolic  it  along, 
With  mad  rapidity  and  unconcern. 
Down  to  the  gulf,  from  which  is  no  return. 
They  trust  in  navies,  and  their  navies  fail — 
God's  curse  can  cast  away  ten  thousand  sail ! 
They  trust  in  armies,  and  their  courage  dies ; 
In  wisdom,  wealth,  in  fortune,  and  in  lies; 
But  all  they  trust  in  withers,  as  it  must, 
When  He  commands,  in  whom  tiny  place  no  trust. 
Vengeance  at  last  pours  down  upon  their  coast 
A  long  dispi.s'd,  hut  now  victorious,  lust  : 
Tyranny  sends  the  chain,  that  must  abridge 


.       TABLE  TALK.  7l 

The  noble  sweep  of  all  their  privilege  ; 
Gives  Liberty  the  last,  the  mortal  shock  ; 
Slips  the  slave's  collar  «n,  and  snaps  the  lock. 

A.  Such  lolty  strains  embellish  what  you  teach  : 
Mean  you  to  prophesy,  or  but  to  pre..ch  I 

B.  I  know  the  mi;,d,  that  feels  indeed  the  h're 
The  muse  imparts,  and  can  command  the  lyre, 
Acts  with  a  force,  and  kindles  with  a  zeal, 
Whate'er  the  theme,  that  otluTS  never  feel. 

If  human  woes  her  soft  attention  claim, 

A  tender  sympathy  pervades  the  frame  ; 

She  pours  a  sensibility  divine 

Along  the  nerve  of  ev'ry  feeling  line. 

But  if  a  deed,  not  tamely  to  be  borne, 

Fire  indignation  and  a  sense  of  scorn, 

The  strings  are  swept  with  such  a  pow'r,  so  loud, 

The  storm  of  music  shakes  th'  astonished  crowd. 

So,  when  remote  futurity  is  brought 

Before  the  keen  inquiry  of  her  thought, 

A  terrible  sagacity  informs 

The  poet's  heart ;  he  looks  to  distant  storms  ; 

He  hears  the  thunder  ere  the  tempest  low'rs; 

And,  arm'd  with  strength  surpassing  human  pow'rs, 

Seizes  events  ss  yet  unknown  to  man, 

And  darts  his  soul  into  the  dawning  plan. 

Hence,  in  a  Roman  mouth,  the  graceful  name 

Of  prophet  and  of  poet  was  the  same  ; 

Hence  British  poets  too  the  priesthood  shar'd, 

And  ev'ry  hallcw'd  druid  was  a  bard. 

But  no  prophetic  fires  to  me  belong  : 

I  play  with  syllables,  and  sport  in  song. 

A.  At  Westminster,  where  little  poets  strive 
To  set  a  distich  upon  six  and  five, 

Where  Discipline,  helps  op'ning  buds  of  sense, 
And  makes  his  pupils  proud  with  silver  pence, 
I  was  a  poet  too :  but  modern  taste 
Is  so  refin'd,  and  delicate,  and  chaste, 
That  verse,  whatever  fire  the  fancy  warms, 
Without  a  creamy  smoothness  has  no  charms. 
Thus,  all  success  depending  on  an  ear, 
And  thinking  I  might  purchase  it  too  dear, 
If  sentiment  were  sacrific'd  to  sound, 
Aud  truth  cut  short  to  make  a  period  round, 
I  judged  a  man  of  sense  could  scarce  do  worse, 
Than  caper  in  the  morns-dance  of  verse. 

B.  Thus  reputation  is  a  spur  to  wit, 
And  some  wits  flag  through  fear  of  losing  it. 
Give  me  the  line  that  ploughs  its  stately  course 
Like  a  proud  swan,  conqu'ring  the  stream  by  force; 


12  TABLE    TALK. 

* 

That  like  some  cottage  beauty,  strikes  the  heart, 

Quite  unindebted  to  the  tricks  of  art. 

When  Labour  and  when  Dulness,  club  in  hand, 

Like  the  two  figures  at  St.  Dunstan's,  stand, 

Beating  alternately,  in  measur'd  time, 

The  clock-work  tintinnabulum  of  rhyme, 

Exact  and  regular  the  sounds  will  be ; 

But  such  mere  quarter-strokes  are  not  for  me. 

From  him,  who  rears  a  poem  lank  and  long, 
To  him  who  strains  his  all  into  a  song; 
Perhaps  some  bonny  Caledonian  air, 
All  birks  and  braes,  though  he  was  never  there ; 
Or,  having  whelp'da  prologue  with  great  pains, 
Feels  himself  spent,  and  fumbles  for  his  brains; 
A  prologue  interdash'd  with  many  a  stroke— 
An  art  contrived  to  advertise  a  joke, 
So  that  the  jest  is  clearly  to  be  seen 
Not  in  the  words — but  in  the  gap  between  : 
Manner  is  all  in  all,  whate'er  is  writ, 
The  substitute  for  genius,  sense,  and  wit. 

To  dally  much  with  subjects  mean  and  low, 
Proves  that  the  mind  is  weak,  or  makes  it  so. 
Neglected  talents  rust  into  decay, 
And  ev'ry  effort  ends  in  push-pin  play. 
The  man,  that  means  success,  should  soar  above 
A  soldier's  feather,  or  a  lady's  glove ; 
Else,  summoning  the  muse  to  such  a  theme, 
The  fruit  of  all  her  labour  is  whipp'd  cream. 
As  if  an  eagle  flew  aloft,  and  then — 
Stoop'd  from  its  highest  pitch  to  pounce  a  wren. 
As  if  the  poet,  purposing  to  wed, 
Should  carve  himself  a  wife  in  gingerbread. 

Ages  elaps'd  ere  Homer's  lamp  appear'd, 
And  ages  ere  the  Mantuan  swan  was  heard. 
To  ca'  ry  Nature  lengths  unknown  before, 
To  give  a  Milton  birth,  ask'd  ages  more. 
Thus  Genius  rose  and  set  at  order'd  times, 
And  siiot  a  dayspring  into  distant  climes, 
Ennobling  ev'ry  region  that  he  chose; 
He  sunk  in  Greece,  in  Italy  he  rose  : 
And,  tedious  years  ofGothic  darkness  past, 
Emerg'd  all  splendour,  in  our  isle  at  last. 
Thus  lovely  halcyons  dive  into  the  main, 
Then  show  far  off  their  shining  plumes  again. 

A.  Is  genius  only  found  in  epic  lays  ? 
Prove  this,  and  forfeit  all  pretence  to  praise. 
Make  their  heroic  pow'rs  your  own  at  once, 
Or  candidly  confess  yourself  a  dunce. 

B.  These  were  the  chief:  each  interval  of  night 
Was  grac'd  with  many  an  undulating  light. 


TABLE    TALK.  13 

In  less  illustrious  bards  his  beauty  shone 
A  meteor,  or  a  star  ;  in  these  the  sun. 

The  nightingale  may  claim  the  topmast  bough, 
While  the  poor  grasshopper  must  chirp  below. 
Like  him  unnotic'd,  I,  and  such  as  I, 
Spread  little  wings,  and  rather  skip  than  fly; 
Perch' d  on  the  meagre  produce  of  the  land, 
An  ell  or  two  of  prospect  we  command; 
But  never  peep  beyond  the  thorny  bound, 
Or  oaken  fence  that  hems  the  paddock  round. 

In  Eden,  ere  yet  innocence  of  heart 
Had  faded,  poetry  was  not  an  art : 
Language,  ab  >ve  all  teaching,  or,  if  taught, 
Only  by  gratitude  v.nd  glowing  thought, 
Elegant  as  simplicity,  and  warm 
As  ecstasy,  unmanacled  by  form  ; 
Not  prompted,  as  in  our  degen'rate  days, 
By  low  ambition  and  the  thirst  of  praise  ; 
Was  natural  as  is  the  flowing  stream, 
And  yet  magnificent — A  God  the  theme! 
Trial  theme  on  Earth  exhausted,  though  above 
'Tis  found  as  everlasting  as  his  love. 
'Man  lavish'd  all  his  thoughts  on  human  things — 
The  feats  of  heroes,  and  the  wrath  of  kings  ; 
But  still,  while  Virtue  kindled  his  delight, 
The  song  was  moral,  and  so  far  was  right. 
'Twas  thus,  till  Luxury  seduc'd  the  mind 
To  joys  less  innocent,  as  less  refin'd  : 
Then  Ge.iius  danc'd  a  bacchanal ;  he  crown'd 
The  brimming  goblet,  seiz'd  the  thyrsus,  bound 
His  brows  with  ivy,  rush'd  into  the  field 
Of  wild  imagination,  and  there  reel'd, 
The  victim  of  his  own  lascivious  fires, 
And,  dizzy  with  delight,  prot'an'd  the  sacred  wire*. 
Anacreon,  Horace,  play'd  in  Greece  and  Rome 
This  bedlam  part;   and  others  nearer  home. 
When  Cromwell  fought  for  pow'r,  and  while  he  reign'd 
The  proud  protector  of  the  power  he  gained, 
Religion,  harsh,  intolerant,  austere, 
Parent  of  manners  like  herself  severe, 
Dre*'  a  rough  copy  of  the  Christian  face, 
Without  the  smile,  the  sweetness,  or  the  grace: 
The  dark  and  sullen  humour  of  the  time 
Judg'd  ev'ry  effort  of  the  muse  a  crime ; 
Verse,  in  the  finest  mould  of  fancy  cast, 
Was  lumber  in  an  age  so  void  of  taste  ; 
Butwh^n  the  Second  Charles  assum'd  the  sway, 
And  arts  reviv'd  beneath  a  softer  day, 
Then,  like  a  bow  long  forc'd  into  a  curve, 

.  C 


14  TABLE  TALK. 

The  mind,  releas'd  from  too  constrain'd  a  nerve, 

Flew  to  its  first  position  with  a  spring, 

That  made  the  vaulted  roofs  of  Pleasure  ring, 

His  court,  the  dissolute  and  hateful  school 

Of  Wantonness,  where  vice  was  taught  by  rule, 

Swarm'd  with  a  scribbling:  herd,  as  deep  inlaid 

With  brutal  lust,  as  ever  Circe  made 

From  these  a  long-  succession,  in  the  rage 

Of  rank  obscenity,  debauch'd  their  age  ; 

Nor  ceas'd,  till,  ever  anxious  to  redress 

Th'  abuses  of  her  siered  charge,  the  press, 

Tlie  muse  instructed  a  well-nurtur'd  train 

Of  abler  votaries  to  clean  e  the  stain, 

And  claim  the  palm  for  purity  of  song, 

That  Lewdness  had  usurp'd  and  worn  so  lono-. 

1  O 

Then  decent  Pleasantry  and  sterling  Sense, 
Tl>at  neither  gave  nor  would  endure  offence, 
Whipp'd  out  of  sight,  with  satire  just  and  keen, 
The  puppy  pack,  that  had  defiled  the  scene. 
In  front  of  these  came  Addison.     In  him 
Humour  in  holiday  and  sightly  trim, 
Sublimitv  and  Attic  taste  combin'd, 

V 

To  polish,  furnish,  and  delight  the  mind. 

Then  Pope,  as  harmony  itself  exact, 

In  verse  well  disciplin'd,  complete,  compact, 

Gave  virtue  and  morality  a  grace, 

That,  quite  eclipsing  Pleasure's  painted  face, 

Levied  a  tax  of  wonder  and  applause, 

E'en  on  the  fools  that  trampled  on  their  laws. 

But  he  (his  musical  finesse  was  such, 

So  nice  his  ear,  so  delicate  his  touch) 

Made  poetry  a  mere  mechanic  art; 

And  ev'ry  warbler  has  h:s  tune  by  heart. 

Nature  imparting  her  satiric  gift, 

Her  serious  mirth,  to  Arbuthnot  and  Swift, 

V'  ith  droll  sobriety  they  rais'd  a  smile 

At  Folly's  cast,  themselves  unmov'd  the  while. 

That  constellation  set,  the  world  in  vain 

Must  hope  to  look  upon  their  like  again. 

A.  Are  we  then  left — B.   Not  wholly  in  the  darkj 
Wit  now  and  then,  struck  smartly,  shows  a  spark, 
Sufficient  to  redeem  the  modern  race 
From  total  night  and  absolute  disgrace. 
While  servile  trick  and  imitative  knack 
Confine  the  million  in  the  beaten  track, 
Perhaps  some  courser,  who  disdains  the  road, 
Snuffs  up  the  wind,  and  Mings  himself  abroad. 

Contemporaries  all  surpass'd^see  one, 
Short  his  career,  indeed,  but  ably  run  ; 
Churchill,  himseir  unconscious  of  his  pow'rs, 


TABLE    TALK.  IS 

In  penury  consumM  his  idle  hours  ; 

And,  like  ;i  scatter' d  seed  at  random  sown, 

Was  left  to  sprinti  by  vigour  of  his  own. 

Lifted  at  length,  by  dignity  of  thought 

And  dint  of  genius,  to  an  affluent  lot, 

He  laid  his  head  in  Luxury's  soft  lap, 

Anil  took,  too  often,  there  his  easy  nap. 

If  brighter  beams  than  all  he  threw  not  fcrth, 

Twas  negligence  in  him,  not  want  of  worth. 

Surly,  and  slovenly,  and  bold,  and  coarse, 

Too  proud  for  art,  and  trusting  in  mere  force, 

Spendthrift  alike  of  money  and  of  wit, 

Always  at  speed,  and  never  drawing  bit, 

He  struck  the  lyre,  in  such  a  careless  mood, 

And  so  disdain'd  the  rules  he  understood  ; 

The  laurel  seem'd  to  wait  on  his  command, 

He  snatch'd  it  rudely  from  tha  Muses'  hand. 

Nature,  exerting  an  unwearied  pow'r, 

Forms,  opens,  and  gives  scent  to  ev'ry  flovv'r ; 

Spreads  the  fresh  verdure  of  the  field,  and  leads 

The  dancing  Naiads  through  the  dewy  meads. 

She  fills  profuse  ten  thousand  little  throats 

With  music,  modulating  all  their  notes; 

And  charms  the  woodland  scenes,  and  wilds  unknown, 

With  artless  airs  and  concerts  of  her  own  : 

But  seldom  (as  if  fearful  of  expense) 

Vouchsafes  to  man  a  poet's  just  pretence — 

Fervency,  freedom,  fluency  of  thought, 

Harmony,  strength,  words  exquisitely  sought; 

Fancy,  that  from  the  bow  that  spans  the  sky, 

Brings  colours,  dipp'd  in  Heav'n,  that  never  die  ; 

A  soul  exalted  above  Earth,  a  mind 

Skill'd  in  the  characters  that  form  mankind- 

And,  as  the  Sun  in  rising  beauty  drest, 

Looks  to  the  westward  from  the  dappled  east, 

And  marks,  wh^t-ver  clouds  mw  interpose, 

Ere  yet  his  race  begins,  its  glorious  close: 

An  eye  like  his  to  catch  the  distant  goal ; 

Or,  ere  the  wheels  cf  verse  begii    to  roll, 

Like  his  to  shed  illuminating  rays 

On  ev'ry  scene  and  subject  it  surveys:    * 

Thus  urac'd,  the  man  asserts  a  poet's  name, 

And  the  world  cheerfully  admits  the  claim. 

Pity  Religion  has  so  seldom  found 

A  skilful  guide  into  poetic  ground  ! 

The  tiow'rs  would  spring  where'er  she  deign'd  to  stray, 

And  ev'ry  muse  attend  her  in  her  way. 

Virtue  in  leed  meets  m;.ny  a  rhyming  friend, 

And  many  a  compliment  politely  penn'ds 

But,  unattir'd  in  that  becoming  vest 


16  TABLE  TALK, 

Religion  weaves  for  her,  and  half  undrest, 
Stands  in  the  desert,  shiv'ring  and  forlorn, 
A  wintry  figure,  like  a  wither'd  thorn. 
The  shelves  are  full,  all  other  themes  are  sped? 
Hackney'd,  and  worn  to  the  last  flimsy  thread, 
Satire  has  long  since  done  his  best ;    and  curst 
And  loathsome  Ribaldry  has  done  its  worst : 
Fancy  has  sported  all  her  pow'rs  away 
In  tales,  in  trifles,  and  in  children's  play; 
And  'tis  the  sad  complaint,  and  almost  true, 
Whate'er  we  write,  we  bring  forth  nothing  new. 
'Twere  new,  indeed,  to  see  a  bard  all  fire, 
Touch'd  with  a  coal  from  Heav'n,  assume  the  lyr«» 
And  tell  the  world,  still  kindling  as  he  sung, 
With  more  than  mortal  music  on  his  tongue, 
That  He,  who  died  below,  and  reignsabove, 
Inspires  the  song,  and  that  his  name  is  Love. 

For,  after  all,  if  merely  to  beguile, 
By  flowing  numbers  and  a  flow'ry  style, 
The  taedium  that  the  lazy  rich  endure, 
Which  now  and  then  sweet  poetry  may  cure  ; 
Or,  if  to  see  the  name  of  idle  self, 
Stamp'd  on  the  well-bound  quarto,  grace  the  shelf; 
To  float  a  bubble  on  the  breath  of  Fame, 
Prompt  his  endeavour  and  engage  his  aim, 
Debas'd  to  servile  purposes  of  pride, 
How  are  the  pow'rs  of  genius  misapplied ! 
The  gift,  whose  office  is  the  Giver's  praise, 
To  trace  him  in  his  word,  his  works,  his  ways  I 
Then  spread  the  rich  discov'ry,  and  invite 
Mankind  to  share  in  the  divine  delight ; 
Distorted  from  its  use  and  just  design, 
To  make  the  pitiful  possessor  shine, 
To  purchase,  at  the  fool-frequented  fair 
Of  vanity,  a  wreath  for  self  to  wear, 
Is  profanation  of  the  basest  kind — 
Proof  of  a  trifling  and  a  worthless  mind. 

A.  Hail  Sternhold,  then  ;  and  Hopkins,  hail  !— 

B.  Amen. 

If  flatt'ry,  folly,  lust,  employ  the  pen  ; 

If  acrimony, Blander,  and  abuse, 

Give  it  a  charge  to  blacken  and  traduce; 

Though  Butler's  wit,  Pope's  numbers,  Prior'.*  ease, 

With  all  that  fancy  can  invent  to  please, 

Adorn  the  polish'd  periods  as  they  fall, 

One  madrigal  of  theirs  is  worth  them  all. 

A.  'Twould  thin  the  ranks  of  the  poetic  tribe, 
To  dash  tbe  pen  through  all  that  you  proscribe. 

B    No  matter— we  could  snift  when  they  were  not! 
And  should,  no  doubt,  if  they  were  all  forgot. 


17 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR, 


Si  quid  loquar  audiendum.    Hor,  Lib.  iv.  Od.  2. 


Sing,  muse  (if  such  a  theme,  so  dark,  so  long.- 
May  find  a  muse  to  grace  it  with  a  song,) 
By  what  unseen  and  unsuspected  arts 
The  serpent  Error  twines  round  human  hearts: 
Tell  where  she  lurks,  beneath  what  flow'ry  shades 
That  not  a  glimpse  of  genuine  light  pervades, 
The  pois'nous,  black,  insinuating  worm 
Successfully  conceals  her  loathsome  form. 
Take,  if  ye  can,  ye  careless  and  supine, 
Counsel  and  caution  from  a  voice  like  mine  1 
Truths,  that  the  theorist  could  never  reach, 
And  observation  taught  me,  I  would  teach. 
Not  all,  whose  eloquence  the  fancy  fills, 
Musical  as  the  chime  of  tinkling  rills, 
Weak  to  perform,  though  mighty  to  pretend, 
Can  trace  her  mazy  windings  to  their  end  ; 
Discern  the  fraud  beneath  the  specious  lure, 
prevent  the  danger,  or  prescribe  the  cure. 
The  clear  harangue,  and  cold  as  it  is  clear, 
Falls  soporific  on  the  listless  ear  ; 
Like  quicksilver,  the  rhet'ric  they  display, 

Shines  .as  it  runs,  but  grasp'd  at,  slips  away. 
Plac'd  for  his  trial  on  this  bustling  stage, 

From  thoughtless  youth  to  ruminating  age, 

Free  in  his  will  to  choose  or  to  refuse, 

Man  may  improve  the  crisis,  or  abuse ; 

Else,  on  the  fatalist's  unrighteous  plan, 

Say  to  what  bar  amenable  were  man  ? 

With  nought  in  charge,  he  could  betray  no  trust; 

And,  if  he"  fell,  would  fall  because  he  must ; 

If  Love  reward  him,  or  if  Vengeance  strike, 

His  recompense  in  both  unjust  alike. 

Divine  authority  within  his  breast 

Brings  ev'ry  thought,  word,  action,  to  the  test ;  _ 

Warns  him  or  prompts,  approves  him  or  restrains, 

As  Reason,  or  as  Passion,  takes  the  reins. 

c  2 


18  THE     PROGRESS    OF    ERROR. 

Heav'n  from  above,  and  Conscience  from  within, 
Cries  in  his  startled  ear — Abstain  from  sin  1 
The  world  around  solicits  his  desire, 
And  kindles  in  his  soul  a  treach'rous  fire; 
While,  all  his  purposes  and  steps  to  guard, 
Peace  follows  Virtue  as  its  sure  reward; 
And  Pleasure  brings  us  surely  in  her  train 
Remorse,  and  Sorrow,  and  vindictive  Pain. 

Man,  thus  endu'd  with  an  elective  voice, 
Must  be  supplied  with  objects  of  his  choice; 
Where'er  he  turns,  enjoyment  and  delight, 
Or  present,  or  in  prospect,  meet  his  sight : 
Those  open  on  the  spot  their  honey'd  store  ; 
These  call  him  loudly  ro  pursuit  of  more. 
His  unexhausted  mine  the  sordid  vice 
Avarice  shows,  and  virtue  is  the  price. 
Her  various  motives  his  ambition  raise — 
Pow'r,  pomp,  and  splendour,  and  the  thirst  of  praise; 
There  beauty  wooes  him  with  expanded  arms; 
E'en  Bacchanalian  madness  has  its  charms. 

Nor  these  alone,  whose  pleasures  less  refin'd 
Might  well  alarm  the  most  unguarded  mind, 
Seek  to  supplant  his  inexperienc'd  youth, 
Or  lead  him  devious  from  the  path  of  truth  ; 
Hourly  allurements  on  his  passions  press, 
Safe  in  themselves,  but  dang'rous  in  th'  excess. 

Hark  !  how  it  floats  upon  the  dewy  air ! 
O  what  a  dying,  dying  close  was  there! 
'Tis  harmony  from  yon  st-quester'd  bow'r, 
Sweet  harmony,  that  soothes  the  midnight  hour! 
Long  ere  the  charioteer  of  day  had  run 
His  morning  course,  th'  encnantment  was  begun; 
And  he  shall  gild  yon  mountain's  height  again, 
Ere  yet  the  pleasing  toil  becomes  a  pain. 

Is  this  the  rugged  path,  the  steep  ascent, 
That  Virtue  points  to?     Can  a  lite  thus  spent 
Lead  to  the  bliss  she  promises  the  wise, 
Detach  the  soul  from  E  u  th,  and  speed  her  to  tl  *  skies  ? 
Ye  devotees  to  your  ador'd  employ, 
Enthusiasts,  drunk  with  an  unreal  jov, 
Love  makes  the  music  of  the  blest  above, 
Heaven's  harmony  is  universal  love; 
And  earthly  sounds,  tho'  sweet  and  well  combin'd, 
And  lenient  as  soft  opiates  to  the  mind, 
Leave  Vice  and  Folly  unsubuu'd  behind. 

Gray  dawn  appears;   the  sportsman  and  his  train 
Speckle  the  bosom  of  the  distant  plain  ; 
'Tis  he,  the  Nimrod  of  the  neighboring  lairs  ; 
Save  that  his  scent  is  less  acute  than  theirs, 


THE    PE.OGK;:sS    OF    ERROR.  19 

For  persevering  chase,  and  headlong  leaps. 
True  beagle  as  the  staunchest  hound  he  keeps. 
Charg'd  with  the  folly  of  his  life's  mad  scene, 
He  takes  offence,  and  wonders  what  you  mean ; 
The  joy  the  danger  and  the  toil  o'crpays — • 
'Tis  exercise,  and  health,  and  length  of  days. 
Again  impetuous  to  the  field  he  flies ; 
Leaps  ev'ry  fence  but  one,  there  falls  and  dies; 
Like  a  slain  deer,  the  tumbrel  brings  him  home, 
Unmiss'd  but  by  his  dogs  and  by  his  groom. 

Ye  clergy,  while  your  orbit  is  your  place. 
Lights  of  the  world,  and  stars  of  human  race  ; 
But  if  eccentric  ye  forsake  your  sphere 
Prociigies  ominous,  and  view'd  with  fear; 
The  comet's  baneful  influence  is  a  dream; 
Yours,  real  and  pernicious  in  th'  extreme. 
What  then  ! — are  appetites  and  lusts  laid  down, 
With  the  same  ease  that  man  puts  on  his  gown? 
Will  Av'rice  and  Concupiscence  give  place, 
Charai'd  by  the  sounds — Your  Ilev'rence,  or  Your  Grace? 
No.      But  his  own  engagement  binds  him  fast ; 
Or,  if  it  does  not,  brands  him  to  the  last, 
What  atheists  call  him — a  designing  knave, 
A  mere  church  juggler,  hypocrite,  and  slave. 
Oh,  laugh  or  mourn  with  me  the  rueful  jest, 
A  cassock'd  huntsman,  and  a  fiddling  priest! 
He  from  Italian  songsters  takes  his  cue  : 
Set  Paul  to  music,  he  shall  quote  him  too. 
He  takes  the  field,  the  master  of  the  pack 
Cries — Well  done,  saint!  and  claps  him  on  the  back. 
Is  this  the  path  of  sanctity  ?     Is  this 
To  stand  a  waymark  in  the  road  to  bliss  ? 
Himself  a  wand'rer  from  the  narrow  way, 
His  silly  sheep,  what  wonder  if  they  stray  ? 
Go,  cast  your  orders  at  your  bishop's  feet, 
Send  your  dishonour* d  gown  to  Monmouth-street ! 
The  sacred  function  in  your  hands  is  made — 
Sad  sacrilege  !  no  function,  but  a  trade  ! 

Occiduus  is  a  pastor  of  renown, 

When  he  has  pray'd  and  preach'd  the  sabbath  down, 
With  wire  and  catgut  he  concludes  the  day, 
Ouav'ring  and  semiquAv'ring  care  away. 
The  full  concerto  swells  upon  your  ear  ; 
All  elbows  shake.     Look  in,  and  you  would  swear 
The  Babylonian  tyrant  with  a  nod 
Had  summon 'd  them  to  serve  his  golden  god. 
So  welJ  that  thought  th'  employment  seems  to  suit} 
Psalt'ry  and  sackbut,  dulcimer  and  flute. 
O  fie!   'tis  evangelical  and  pure: 


20  THE   PROGRESS    OF    ERROR. 

Observe  each  face,  how  sober  and  demure ! 
Ecstasy  sets  her  stamp  on  ev'ry  mien  ; 
Chins  fall'n,  and  not  an  eye-ball  to  be  seen. 
Still  I  insist,  though  music  heretofore 
Hascharm'd  me  much,  (not  e'en  Occiduus  more,"} 
Love,  jov,  and  peace,  make  harmony  more  meet 
For  sabbath  ev'nings,  and  perhaps  as  sweet. 

Will  not  die  sickliest  sheep  of  ev'ry  flock 
Resort  to  this  example  as  a  rock ; 
There  stand,  and  justify  the  foul  abuse 
Of  sabbath-hours  with  plausible  excuse? 
If  apostolic  gravity  be  free 
To  play  the  fool  on  Sundays,  why  not  we  ? 
If  he  the  tinkling  harpsichord  regards 
As  inoffensive,  what  offence  in  cards? 
Strike  up  the  fiddles,  let  us  all  be  gay, 
Laymen  have  leave  to  dance,  if  parsons  play. 

Oh  Italy  ! — Thy  sabbaths  will  be  soon 
Our  sabbaths,  clos'd  with  mumm'ry  and  buffoon. 
Preaching  and  pranks  will  share  the  motley  seen* 
Ours  parcell'd  out,  as  thine  have  ever  been, 
God's  worship  and  the  mountebank  between. 
What  says  the  Prophet  ?     Let  that  day  be  blest 
With  holiness  and  consecrated  rest. 
Pastime  and  business  both  it  should  exclude, 
And  bar  the  door  the  moment  they  intrude: 
Nobly  distinguished  above  all  the  six 
By  deeds,  in  which  the  world  must  never  mix. 
Hear  him  again.     He  calls  it  a  delight, 
A  day  of  luxury  observ'd  aright, 

When  the  glad  soul  is  made  Heav'n's  welcome  guest 
Sits  banqueting,  and  God  provides  the  feast. 
But  triflcrs  are  engag'd  and  cannot  come; 
Their  answer  to  the  call  is — Not  at  I/owe. 

Oh  the  dear  pleasures  of  the  velvet  plain, 
The  painted  tablets,  dealt  and  dealt  ag.in! 
Cards  with  what  rapture,  and  the  polish'd  die, 
The  yawning  chasm  of  indolence  supply  ! 
Then  to  the  dance,  and  make  the  sober  moon 
Witness  of  joys  that  shun  the  sight  of  noon. 
Blame,  cynic,  if  you  can,  quadrille  or  ball, 
The  snug  close  party,  or  the  splendid  hall, 
Where  Night,  down-stooping  from  her  ebon  throne, 
Views  constellations  brighter  than  her  own. 
'Tis  innocent,  and  harmless,  and  refin'd, 
The  balm  of  care,  Elysium  of  the  mind. 
Innocent!   Oh  if  venerable  Time 
Slain  at  the  foot  of  Pleasure  be  no  crime, 
Then,  with  his  silver  beard  and  magic  wand, 


THE    PROGRESS    OF    ERROR.  21 

Let  Comus  rise  archbishop  of  the  land  ; 

Let  him  your  rubric  and  your  feasts  prescribe, 

Grand  metropolitan  of  all  the  tribe. 

Of  manners  rough,  and  coarse  athletic  cast, 
The  rank  debauch  suits  Clodio's  filthy  taste. 
Rufillus,  exquisitely  form'd  by  rule, 
Not  of  the  moral  but  the  dancing  school, 
Wonder's  at  Clodio's  follies,  in  a  tone 
As  tragical,  as  others  at  his  own. 
He  cannot  drink  five  bottles,  bilk  the  score, 
Then  kill  a  constable,  and  drink  five  more ; 
But  he  can  draw  a  p-ittern,  make  a  tart, 
And  has  the  ladies'  etiquette  by  heart. 
Go,  fool  ;  and,  arm  in  arm  with  Clodio,  plead 
Your  cau-<e  before  a  bar  you  little  dread  ; 
But  know,  the  law,  that  bids  the  drunkard  die, 
Is  far  too  just  to  pass  the  trirler  by. 
Both  baby-featnr'd,  and  of  infant  si/.e, 
View'd  from  a  distance,  and  with  heedless  eyes, 
Folly  and  Innocence  are  so  alike, 
The  ditfrence,  though  essential,  fails  to  strike 
Yet  Fully  ever  has  a  vacant  stare, 
A  simp'ring  count'nance,  and  a  trifling  air; 
But  Innocence,  *edate,  serene,  erect, 
Delights  us,  by  engaging  our  respect. 
Man,  Nature's  guest  by  invitation  sweet, 
Receives  from  her  both  appetite  and  treat; 
But,  if  he  play  the  glutton  and  exceed, 
His  benefactress  blushes  at  the  deed; 
For  Nature,  nice,  as  lib'ral  to  dispense, 
Made  nothing  but  a  brute  the  slave  of  sense. 
Daniel  ate  pulse  by  choice— example  rare! 
Heav'n  bless'd  the  youth,  and  made  him  fresh  and  fair. 
Gorgonius  sits,  abdominous  and  wan, 
Like  a  fat  squab  upon  a  Chinese  fan: 
He  snuffs  far  off  th'  anticipated  joy  ; 
Turtle  anil  ven'son  all  his  thoughts  employ  ; 
Prepares  for  meals  as  jockeys  take  a  sweat, 
Oh,  nauseous! — an  emetic  for  a  whet! 
Will  Providence  o'erlook  the  wasted  good? 
Temperance  were  no  virtue  if  he  could. 

That  pleasures,  therefore,  or  what  such  we  call, 
Are  hurtful,  is  a  truth  confess'd  by  all ; 
And  some,  that  seem  to  threaten  virtue  less, 
Still  hurtful  in  th'  abuse,  or  by  th'  excess. 

Is  man  then  only  for  his  torment  plac'd 
The  centre  of  delights  he  may  not  taste  ? 
Like  fabled  Tantalus,  condemn'd  to  hear 
The  precious  stream  still  purling  in  his  ear, 


22  THE    PROGRESS    OF    ERROR. 

Lip-deep  in  what  he  longs  for,  and  yet 'curst 

"With  prohibition,  and  perpetual  thirst  ? 

No,  wrangler — destitute  of  shame  and  sense, 

The  precept,  that  enjoins  him  abstinence, 

Forbids  him  none  but  the  licentious  joy, 

Whose  fruit,  though  fair,  tempts  only  to  destroy. 

Remorse,  the  fatal  egg  by  Pleasure  laid 

In  ev'ry  bosom  where  her  nest  is  made, 

Hatch'd  by  the  beams  of  Truth,  denies  him  rest, 

And  proves  a  raging  scorpion  in  his  breast. 

No  pleasure?       Are  domestic  comforts  dead  ? 

Are  all  the  nameless  sweets  of  friendship  fled  ? 

Has  time  worn  out,  or  fashion  put  to  shame, 

Good  sense,  good  health,  good  conscience,  and  pood  fame  t 

All  these  belong  to  virtue,  and  all  prove, 

That  virtue  has  a  title  to  your  love. 

Have  you  no  touch  of  pity,  that  the  poor 

Stand  starv'd  at  your  inhospitable  door? 

Or  if  yourself  too  scantily  supplied 

Need  help,  let  honest  industry  provide. 

Earn,  if  you  want;   if  you  abound,  impart : 

These  both  are  pleasures  to  the  feeling  heart. 

No  pleasure  ?      Has  some  sickly  eastern  waste 

Sent  us  a  wind  to  parch  us  at  a  blast? 

Can  British  Paradise  no  scenes  afford 

To  please  her  sated  and  indiffrent  lord? 

Are  sweet  philosophy's  enjoyments  run 

Quite  to  the  lees?     And  has  religion  none? 

Brutes  capable  would  tell  you 'tis  a  lie, 

And  judge  you  from  the  kennel  and  the  sty. 

Delights  like  these,  ye  sensual  and  profane, 

Ye  are  bid,  begg'd,  besought  to  entertain ; 

Call'd  to  these  crystal  streams,  do  ye  turn  off 

Obscene  to  swill  and  swallow  at  a  trough? 

Envy  the  beast  then,  on  whom  Heav'n  bestows 

Your  pleasures,  with  no  curses  in  the  close. 

Pleasure  admitted  in  undue  deg.ee 
Enslaves  the  will,  nor  leaves  the  judgment  free. 
'Tis  not  alone  the  grape's  enticing  juice 
Unnerves  the  moral  pow'rs,  and  mars  their  use ; 
Ambition,  av'rice,  and  the  lust  of  fame, 
An  1  woman,  lovely  woman,  does  the  same. 
The  heart,  surrender'd  to  the  ruling  pow'r 
Of  some  ungovern'ci  passion  ev'ry  hour, 
Finds  by  degrees  the  truths,  that  once  bore  sway, 
And  all  their  deep  impressions,  wear  aw;<v; 
So  coin  grows  smooth,  in  traffic  current  pass'd, 
Till  Ceesar's  image  is  effac'd  at  last. 

The  breach,  tho'  small  at  first,  soonop'ning  wide, 


THE    PROGRESS    OF    ERROR.  23 

In  rushes  folly  with  a  full-moon  tide, 

Then  welcome  errors  of  whatever  size, 

To  justify  it  by  a  thousand  lies. 

As  creeping1  ivy  clings  to  wood  or  stone, 

Anil  hi  ies  the  ruin  that  it  feeds  upon; 

So  sophistry  cleaves  close  to  and  protects 

Sin's  rotten  trunk,  concealing  its  defects. 

Mortals,  whose  pleasures  are  their  only  care, 

First  wish  to  be  inipos'd  on,  and  then  are. 

And,  lest  the  fulsome  artifice  should  fail, 

Themselves  will  hide  its  coarseness  with  a  veiL 

Not  more  industrious  are  the  just  and  true, 

To  give  to  Virtue  what  is  Virtue's  due — 

The  praise  of  wisdom,  comeliness,  and  worth, 

And  call  her  charms  to  public  notice  forth — 

Than  Vice's  mean  and  disingenuous  race, 

To  hide  the  shocking  features  of  her  face. 

Her  form  with  dress  and  lotion  they  repair; 

They  kiss  tluir  idol,  anil  pronounce  her  fair. 
The  sacred  implement  I  now  employ 

Might  prove  a  mischief,  or  at  best  a  toy ; 

A  tntie,  if  it  move  but  to  amu^e  -, 

But,  if  to  wrong  the  judgment  and  abuse, 

Worse  than  a  poinard  in  the  l-asist  hand, 

It  stabs  at  once  the  morals  of  a  land. 

Ye  writers  of  what  none  with  safety  reads, 

Footing  it  in  the  dance  that  Fancy  leads; 

Ye  novelists,  who  mar  what  ye  would  mend, 

Sniv'liing  and  driv'lling  folly  without  end  ; 

Whose  corresponding  mis.^es  fill  the  ream 

With  sentimental  frippery  and  dream, 

Caught  in  a  delicate  soft  silken  net 

By  some  lewd  earl,  or  rakehell  bai  onet : 

Ye  pimps,  who,  under  virtue's  fair  pretence, 

Steal  to  the  closet  of  young  innocence, 

And  teach  her,  unexperu  nc'd  yet  and  green, 

To  scribble  as  you  scribbled  at  fifteen  ; 

\\lio,  kindling  a  combustion  of  desire, 

With  some  cold  moral  think  to  quench  the  fire; 

Though  all  your  engineering  proves  in  vain, 

The  dribbling  stream  ne'er  puts  it  out  again: 

O  thai  a  verse  had  pow'r,  and  could  command 

Far,  far  away  these  Mesh-Hies  of  the  land  ; 

Who  fasten  without  mercy  on  the  fair, 

And  suck,  and  leave  a  craving  maggot  there  1 

Howe'er  disguis'd  th'  inflammatory  tale, 

And  cover'd  with  a  fine-spun  specious  veil; 

Such  writers,  and  such  readers,  owe  the  gust 

And  relish  of  the'r  pleasure  all  u>  lust. 


21  THE    PROGRESS    OF    ERROR. 

But  the  muse,  eagle  piniou'd,  has  in  view 
A  quarry  more  important  still  than  you  , 
Down,  down  the  wind  she  swims,  and  sails  away, 
Now  stoops  upon  it,  and  now  giasps  the  prey. 

Petronius  !   all  the  muses  weep  tor  thee ; 
But  ev'ry  tear  shall  scald  thy  memory  : 
The  graces  too,  while  Virtue  at  their  shrine 
Lay  bleeding  under  that  soft  hand  of  thine, 
Felt  each  a  mortal  stab  in  her  own  breast, 
Abhorr'd  the  sacrifice,  and  curs'd  the  priest. 
Thou  polish'd  and  high -tin  ish'd  foe  to  truth, 
Graybeard  corrupter  of  our  listening  youth, 
To  purge  and  skim  away  the  filth  of  vice, 
That  so  refin'd  it  might  the  more  entice, 
Then  pour  it  on  the  morals  of  thy  son  ; 
To  taint  his  heart,  was  worthy  of  thine  own  I 
Now,  while  the  poison  all  high  life  pervades, 
Write,  if  thou  canst,  one  letter  from  the  shades  ; 
One,  and  one  only,  charg'd  with  deep  regret, 
That  thy  worse  part,  thy  principles,  live  yet: 
One  sad  epistle  thence  may  cure  mankind 
Of  the  plague  spread  by  bundles  left  behind. 
'Tis  granted,  and  no  plainer  truth  appears, 
Our  most  important  ate  our  earliest  years; 
The  Mind,  impressible  and  soft,  with  ease 
Imbibes  and  copies  what  she  hears  and  sees, 
And  through  life's  labyrinth  holds  last  the  clew 
That  Education  gives  her,  false  or  true. 
Plants  rais'd  with  tenderness  are  seldom  strong  ; 
Man's  coltish  disposition  asks  the  thong ; 
And  without  discipline,  the  fav'rite  child, 
Like  a  neglected  forester,  runs  wild. 
But  we,  as  if  good  qualities  would  grow 
Spontaneous,  take  but  little  pains  to  sow  ; 
We  give  some  Latin,  and  asmatch  of  G reek; 
Teach  him  to  fence  and  figure  twice  a-wetk ; 
And  having  done,  we  think,    the  best  we  can, 
Praise  his  proficiency,  and  dub  him  man. 

From  school  to  Cam  or  Isis,  and  thence  home  ; 
And  thence  with  all  convenient  speed  to  Rome, 
With  rev'rend  tutor  clad  in  habit  lay, 
To  tease  for  cash,  and  quarrel  with  all  day  ; 
With  memorandum  book  for  ev'ry  town, 
And  ev'iy  post,  and  where  the  chaise  broke  clown  5 
His  stock,  a  few  French  phrases  got  by  heart, 
With  much  to  learn,  but  nothing  to  impart ; 
The  youth,  obedient  to  his  sire's  commands, 
Sets  off  a  wand'rer  into  foreign  lands. 
Surpris'd  at  all  they  meet,  the  gosling  pair, 


THE  PROGRESS  OF   ERROR.  25 

With  awkward  gait,  stretch' cl  neck,  and  silly  stare, 
Discover  huge  cathedrals  built  with  stone, 
And  steeples  tow'rins:  hi^h,  much  like  our  own  ; 
But  show  peculiar  light  by  many  a  grin, 
At  popish  practices  observ'd  within. 

Ere   ong  some  bowing,  smirking,  smart  abbe" 
Remarks  two  loit'rers,  that  have  lost  their  way  ; 
And  being  always  prim'd  with  politesse 
For  men  of  their  appearance  and  address, 
With  much  compassion  undertakes  the  task, 
To  tell  them  more  than  they  have  wit  to  ask; 
P  >     ts  to  inscriptions  wheresoe'er  they  tread, 
Such  as,  when  legible,  were  never  read, 
But,  being  canker'd  now  and  halt'  worn  out, 
Craze  antiquarian  brains  with  endless  doubt  ; 
Sonic  headless  hero,  or  some  Caesar  shows — 
Defective  only  in  his  Roman  nose ; 
Exhibits  elevations,  drawings,  plans, 
Models  of  Herculanean  pots  and  pans; 
And  sells  them  medals,  which,  if  neither  rare 
Nor  ancient,  will  be  so,  preserv'd  with  care. 
Strange  the  recital !  from  whatever  cause 
His  great  improvement  and  new  light  he  draws, 
The  squire,  o'nce  bashful,  is  shamefac'd  no  more, 
But  teems  with  pow'rs  he  never  felt  before  : 
Whether  increas'd  momentum,  and  the  force, 
With  which  from  clime  to  clime  he  sped  his  course, 
(As  axles  sometimes  kindle  as  they  go) 
Chaf  d  him,  and  brought  dull  nature  to  a  glow  ; 
Or  whether  clearer  skies  and  softer  air, 
That  make  Italian  flow'rs  so  sweet  and  fair, 
Fresh 'ning  his  lazy  spirits  as  he  ran, 
Unfolded  genially  and  spread  the  man ; 
Returning  he  proclaims  by  many  a  grace, 
By  shrugs  and  strange  contortions  of  his  face, 
How  much  a  dunce,  that  has  been  sent  to  roam, 
Excels  a  dunce,  that  has  been  kept  at  home. 

Accomplishments  have  taken  virtue's  place, 
And  wisdom  falls  before  exterior  grace  : 
We  slight  the  precious  kernel  of  the  stone, 
And  toll  to  polish  its  rough  coat  alone. 
A  just  deportment,  manners  grac'd  with  ease, 
Elegant  phrase,  and  figure  form'd  to  please, 
Are  qualities,  that  seem  to  comprehend 
Whatever  parents,  guardians,  srhoi  Is  intend  ; 
Hence  an  unfurnish'd  and  a  listless  mind, 
Though  busy,  trifling  ;  empty,  though  n-fiVd  ; 
Hence  all  that  interferes,  and  dares  to  cla  -h 
With  indolence  and  luxury,  is  trash  ; 


26  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR. 

While  learning,  once  the  man's  exclusive  pride, 

Seems  verging  fast  towards  the  female  side. 

Learning  itself,  receiv'd  into  a  mind 

By  nature  weak,  or  viciously  inclin'd, 

Serves  but  to  lead  philosphers  astray, 

Where  children  would  with  ease  discern  the  way 

And  of  all  arts  sagacious  dupes  invent, 

To  cheat  themselves  and  gain  the  world's  assent, 

The  worst  is — Scripture  warp'd  from  its  intent. 

The  carriage  bowls  along,  and  all  are  pleas'd 
If  Tom  be  sober,  and  the  wheels  well  greas'd  ; 
But  if  the  rogue  have  gone  a  cup  too  far, 
Left  out  his  linchpin,  or  forgot  his  tar, 
It  suffers  interruption  and  delay, 
And  meets  with  hindiance  in  the  smoothest  way 
"When  some  hypothesis,  absurb  and  vain, 
Has  fill'd  with  all  its  fumes  a  critic's  brain, 
The  text,  that  sorts  not  with  his  darling  whim, 
Though  plain  to  others,  is  obscure  to  him. 
The  will  made  subject  to  a  lawless  force, 
All  is  irregular  and  out  of  course  ; 
And  Judgment  drunk,  and  brib'd  to  lose  his  way, 
Winks  hard,  and  talks  of  darkness  at  noonday. 

A  critic  on  the  sacred  book  should  be 
Candid  and  learn'd,  dispassionate  and  free ! 
Free  from  the  wayward  bias  bigots  feel, 
From  fancy's  influence,  and  intemp'rate  zeal : 
But,  above  all,  for  let  the  wretch  refrain, 
Nor  touch  the  page  he  cannot  but  profane,) 
Free  from  the  domineering  pow'r  of  lust ; 
A  lewd  interpreter  is  never  just. 

How  shall  1  speak  thee,  or  thy  pow'r  address, 
Thou  god  of  our  idolatry,  the  Press  ? 
By  thee  religion,  liberty,  and  laws, 
Exert  their  influence,  and  advance  their  cause  ; 
By  thee  worse  plagues  than  Pharaoh's  land  bcfel, 
Difus'd,  make  Earth  the  vestibule  of  He1! ; 
Thou  fountain,  at  which  drink  the  good  and  wise  , 
Thou  ever-bubbling  spring  of  endless  lies; 
Like  Eden's  dread  probationary  tree, 
Knowledge  ot  good  and  evil  is  from  thee. 

No  wild  enthusiast  ever  yet  could  rest, 
Till  half  mankind  were  like  himself  possess'd. 
Philosophers,  who  darken  and  put  out 
Eternal  truth  by  everlasting  doubt  ; 
Church  quacks,  with  passions  under  no  command 
Who  till  the  world  with  doctrines  contraband, 
Discov'rers  of  they  know  not  what,  confin'd 
Within  no  bounds — the  blind  that  lead  the  blind: 


THE   PROGRESS   OF  ERROR.  27 

To  streams  of  popular  opinion  drawn, 
Deposit  in  those  shallows  all  their  spawn. 
The  wriggling1  fry  soon  fill  the  creeks  around, 
Pois'ning  the  waters  where  their  swarms  abound* 
Scorn'd  by  the  nobler  tenants  of  the  flood, 
Minnows  and  gudgeons  gorge  th'  unwholesome  food. 
The  propagated  myriads  spread  so  fast, 
E'en  Lewenhoeck  himself  would  stand  aghast, 
Employ'd  to  calculate  th'  enormous  sum, 
And  own  his  crab-computing  pow'rs  o'ercome. 
Is  this  hyperbole  ?     The  world  well  known, 
Your  sober  thoughts  will  hardly  find  it  one. 

Fresh  confidence  the  speculatist  takes 
From  ev'ry  haiv-brain'd  proselyte  he  makes; 
And  therefore  prints.     Himself  but  half  deceiv'd, 
Till  others  have  the  soothing  tale  believ'd. 
Hence  comment  after  comment,  spun  as  fine 
As  bloated  spiders  draw  the  flimsy  line  : 
Hence  the  same  word,  that  bids  our  lusts  obey, 
Is  misapplied  to  sanctify  their  sway. 
If  stubborn  Greek  refuse  to  be  his  friend, 
Hebrew  or  Syriac  shall  be  forc'd  to  bend  : 
If  languages  and  copies  all  cry,  No — 
Somebody  prov'd  it  centuries  ago. 
Like  trout  pursued,  the  critic  in  despair 
Darts  to  the  mud,  and  finds  his  safety  there. 
Woman,  whom  custom  has  forbid  to  fly 
The  scholar's  pitch  (the  scholar  best  knows  why), 
With  all  the  simple  and  unletter'd  poor, 
Admire  his  learning,  and  almost  adore. 
Whoever  errs,  the  priest  can  ne'er  be  wrong, 
With  such  fine  words  familiar  to  his  tongue. 

Ye  ladies  !   (for  indifferent  in  your  cause, 
I  shauld  deserve  to  forfeit  all  applause,) 
Whatever  shocks  or  gives  the  least  offence 
To  virtue,  delicacy,  truth,  or  sense, 
(Try  the  criterion,  'tis  a  faithful  guide,) 
Nor  has,  nor  can  have,  Scripture  on  its  side. 

None  but  an  author  knows  an  authors  cares, 
Or  Fancy's  fondness  for  the  child  she  bears. 
Committed  once  into  the  public  arms, 
The  baby  seems  to  smile  with  added  charms. 
Like  something  precious  ventur'd  far  from  shore, 
'Tis  valued  for  the  danger's  sake  the  more. 
He  views  it  with  complacency  supreme, 
Solicits  kind  attention  to  his  dream  ; 
And  daily  more  enarr.our'd  of  the  cheat, 
Kneels,  and  asks  Heav'n  to  bless  the  dear  deceit. 
So  one,  waose  story  serves  at  least  to  show 


28  THE  PROGRESS  OP  ERROR. 

Men  lov'd  their  own  productions  long  ago, 
Woo  d  an  unfeeling  statue  for  his  wife, 
Nor  rested  till  the  gods  had  giv'n  it  life. 
If  some  mere  driv'ller  suck  the  sugar'd  fib, 
One  that  still  needs  his  leading-string  and  bib, 
And  praise  his  genius,  he  is  soon  repaid 
In  praise  applied  to  the  same  part — his  head  : 
For  'tis  a  rule,  that  holds  for  ever  true, 
Grant  me  discernment,  and  I  grant  it  you. 

Patient  of  contradiction  as  a  child, 
Affable,  humble,  diffident,  and  mild; 
Such  was  Sir  Isaac,  and  such  Boyle  and  Locke  ; 
Your  blund'rer  is  as  sturdy  as  a  rock. 
The  creature  is  so  sure  to  kick  and  bite, 
A  muleteer's  the  man  to  set  him  right. 
First  Appetite  enlists  him  truth's  sworn  foe, 
Then  obstinate  Self-will  confirms  him  so. 
Tell  him  he  wanders  ;  that  his  error  leads 
To  fatal  ills  ;  that,  though  the  path  he  treads 
Be  flow'ry,  and  he  see  no  cause  of  fe-ir, 
Death  and  the  pains  of  Hell  attend  him  there: 
In  vain  ;  the  slave  of  arrogance  and  pride, 
He  has  no  hearing  on  the  prudent  side. 
His  still  refuted  quirks  he  still  repeats  ; 
New  rais'd  objections  with  new  quibbles  meets  ; 
Till,  sinking  in  the  quicksand  he  defends, 
He  dies  disputing,  and  the  contest  ends — 
But  not  the  mischiefs  ;  they,  Btill  left  behind, 
Like  thistle-seeds,  are  sown  by  ev'ry  wind. 

Thus  men  go  wrong  with  an  ingenious  skill ; 
Bend  the  straight  rule  to  their  own  crooked  willj 
And  with  a  clear  and  shining  lamp  supplied, 
First  put  it  out,  then  take  it  for  a  guide. 
Halting  on  crutches  of  unequal  size, 
One  leg  by  truth  supported,  one  by  lies ; 
They  sidle  to  the  goal  with  awkward  pace, 
Secure  of  nothing— but  to  lose  the  race. 

Faults  in  the  life  breed  errors  in  the  brain, 
And  these  reciprocally  those  again. 
The  mind  and  conduct  mutually  imprint 
And  stamp  their  image  in  each  other's  mint; 
Each,  sire  and  dam,  of  an  infernal  race, 
Begetting  and  conceiving  all  that's  base. 

None  sends  his  arrow  to  the  mark  in  view, 
Whose  hand  is  feeble,  or  his  aim  untrue. 
For  though,  ere  yet  the  shaft  is  on  the  wing, 
Or  when  it  first  forsakes  th'  elastic  string, 
It  err  but  little  from  th'  intended  line, 
It  falls  at  last  far  wide  of  his  design : 


"H 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR.  29 

So  he,  who  seeks  a  mansion  in  the  sky, 
Must  vvati'h  hi-;  purpose  with  a  s  ted  fast  eye; 
That  prize  belongs  to  none  but  the  sincere: 
The  least  obliquity  is  fatal  here. 

With  caution  taste  the  sweet  Circean  cup  ; 
He  that  sips  often,  at  last  drinks  it  up. 
Habits  are  soon  assum'd  ;  but  when  we  strive 
To  strip  them  off,  'tis  being  flay'd  alive. 
Call'd  to  the  temple  of  impure  delight, 
He  that  abstains,  and  he  alone,  does  right. 
If  a  wish  wander  that  way,  call  it  home; 
He  cannot  long  be  safe  whose  wishes  roam. 
But,  if  you  pass  the  threshold,  you  are  caught ; 
Die  then,  if  pow'r  Almighty  save  you  not. 
There  hard'ning  by  degrees,  till  double  steel'd, 
Take  leave  of  natures  God,  and  God  reveal'd ; 
Then  laugh  at  all  you  trembled  at  befcve  ; 
And,  joining  the  free-thinkers'  brutal  roar, 
Swallow  the  two  grand  nostrums  they  dispense — 
That  Scripture  lies,  and  blasphemy  is  sense: 
If  clemency  revolted  by  abuse 
Be  damnable,  then  damn'd  without  excuse. 

Some  dream  that  they  can  silence,  when  they  will, 
The  storm  of  passion,  and  say,  Peace,  be  still ; 
But  "  Thus  far  and  no  farther ,"  when  addres'd 
To  the  wild  wave,  or  wilder  human  breast, 
Implies  authority  that  never  can, 
That  never  ought  to  be  the  lot  of  man. 

But  muse  forbear  ;  long  flights  forbode  a  fall ; 
Strike  on  the  deep-ton'd  chord  the  sum  of  all. 

Hear  the  just  law — the  judgment  of  the  skies! 
He  that  hates  truth  shall  be  the  dupe  of  lies  : 
And  he  that  will  be  cheated  to  the  last, 
Delusions  strong  as  Hell  shall  bind  him  fast. 
But  if  the  wand'rer  his  mistake  discern, 
Judge  his  own  ways,  and  sigh  for  a  return, 
Bewilder'd  once,  must  he  bewail  his  loss 
For  ever  and  for  ever  ?     No — the  cross  ! 
There  and  there  only  (though  the  deist  rave, 
And  atheist,  if  Earth  bear  so  base  a  slave); 
There  and  there  only  is  the  pow'r  to  save. 
There  no  delusive  hope  invites  despair  ; 
No  mock'ry  meets  you,  no  deception  there. 
The  spells  and  charms,  that  blinded  you  before, 
All  vanish  there,  arid  fascinate  no  more. 

I  am  no  preacher,  let  this  hint  suffice — 
The  cross  once  ^een  is  death  to  ev'ry  vice  : 
Else  he  that  hung  there  suffer'd  all  his  pain, 
Bled,  groan' d,  and  agoniz'd,  and  died,  in  vain. 

u  '2 


TRUTH. 


"Pensanturtrutina."    Hor.  Lib.  ii.  Epist.  a. 


Man,  on  the  dubious  waves  of  error  toss'd, 
His  ship  half-founder'd,  and  his  compass  lost, 
Sees,  far  as  human  optics  may  command, 
A  sleeping  fog,  and  fancies  it  dry  land  : 
Spreads  all  his  canvass,  every  sinew  plies  ; 
Pants  for't,  aims  at  it,  enters  it,  and  dies! 
Then  farewell  all  self-satisfying  schemes, 
His  well-built  systems,  philosophic  dreams; 
Deceitful  views  of  future  bliss  farewell! — 
He  reads  his  sentence  at  the  flames  of  Hell. 

Hard  lot  of  man — to  toil  for  the  reward 
Of  virtue,  and  yet  lose  it !     Wherefore  hard  ? — 
He  that  would  win  the  race,  must  guide  his  horse 
Obedient  to  the  customs  of  the  course  ; 
Else,  though  unequall'd  to  the  goal  he  flies, 
A  meaner  than  himself  shall  gain  the  prize. 
Grace  leads  the  right  way:  if  you  choose  the  wrong, 
Take  it  and  perish  ;  but  restrain  your  tongue ; 
Charge  not,  with  light  sufficient,  and  left  free, 
Your  wilful  suicide  on  God's  decree. 

O  how  unlike  the  complex  works  of  man. 
Heaven's  easy,  artless,  unencumber'd  plan  1 
No  meretricious  graces  to  beguile, 
No  clust'ring  ornaments  to  clog  the  pile; 
From  ostentation  as  from  weakness  free, 
It  stands  like  the  cerulean  arch  we  see, 
Majestic  in  its  own  simplicity. 
Inscrib'd  above  the  portal,  from  afar 
Conspicuous,  as  the  brightness  of  a  star, 
Legible  only  by  the  light  they  give, 
Stand  the  soul- quick' ning  words — Believe  and  live. 
Too  many,  shock 'd  at  what  should  charm  them  most, 
Despise  the  plain  direction,  and  are  lost. 
Heav'n  on  such  terms  !  (they  cry  with  proud  disdain), 
Incredible,  impossible,  and  vain  ! — 
Rebel,  because  'tis  easy  to  obey ; 


TRUTH.  31 

And  scorn,  for  its  own  sake,  the  gracious  way. 
These  are  the  sober,  in  whose  cooler  brains 
Some  thought  of  immortality  remains  ; 
The  rest  too  busy,  or  too  gay  to  wait 
On  the  sad  theme,  their  everlasting  stat 
Sport  fora  day,  and  perish  in  a  night, 
The  f'oatn  upon  the  waters  not  so  light. 

Who  juclg'd  the  Pharisee  ?    What  odious  cause 
Expos'd  him  to  the  vengeance  of  the  laws? 
Had  he  seduc'd  a  virgin,  wrong'd  a  friend, 
Or  stabb'd  a  man  to  serve  son.e  private  end  ? 
Was  blasphemy  his  sin  ?   Or  did  he  stray 
From  the  strict  duties  of  the  sacred  day  ? 
Sit  long  and  late  at  the  carousing  board  ? 
(Such  were  the  sins  with  which  he  charg'd  his  Lord.) 
No— the  man's  morals  were  exact,  what  then? 
Twas  his  ambition  to  be  seen  of  men  ; 
His  virtues  were  his  pride  ;  and  that  one  vicp 
Made  all  his  virtues  gew-gaws  of  no  price, 
He  wore  them  as  fine  trappings  for  a  show, 
A  praying,  synagogue-frequenting  beau. 

The  self-applauding  bird,  the  peacock,  see 

Mark  what  a  sumptuous  Pharisee  is  he! 
Meridian  sun-beams  tempt  him  to  unfold 
His  radiant  glories,  azure,  green,  and  gold: 
tie  treads  as  if  some  solem-n  music  near, 
His  measur'd  step  were  govern'd  by  his  ear: 
And  seems  to  say — Ye  meaner  fowl,  give  place, 
I  am  all  splendour,  dignity,  and  grace ! 

Not  so  the  pheasant  on  his  charms  presumes, 
Though  he  too  has  a  glory  in  his  plumes. 
He,  Christian-like,  retreats  with  modest  mien 
To  the  close  copse,  or  far-sequester'd  green, 
And  shines  without  desiring  to  be  seen. 
The  plea  of  works,  as  arrogant  and  vain, 
Heav'n  turns  from  with  abhorrence  and  disdain; 
Not  more  affronted  by  avow'd  neglect, 
Than  by  the  mere  dissembler's  feign'd  respect 
What  is  all  righteousness  that  men  devise  ? 
What — but  a  sordid  bargain  for  the  skies? 
Put  Christ  as  soon  would  abdicate  his  own, 
As  stoop  from  Heav'n  to  sell  the  proud  a  throne. 

His  dwelling  a  recess  in  some  rude  rock, 
Book,  beads,  and  maple  dish,  his  mearre  stock; 
In  shirt  of  hair  and  weeds  of  canvass  dress'd, 
Girt  with  a  bell-rope  that  the  pope  has  bless'd  ; 
Adust  with  stripes,  told  out  for  ev'ry  crime, 
And  sore  tormented  long  before  his  time  ; 
Hispray'r  preferr'd  te  saints  that  cannot  aid,; 


32  i'RUTH. 

His  praise  postpon'd,  and  never  to  be  paid  ; 

See  the  sage  hermit,  by  mankind  admir'd, 

With  all  that  bigotry  adopts  inspir'd, 

Wearing  out  life  in  his  religious  whim, 

Till  his  religious  whimsey  wears  out  him. 

His  works,  his  abstinence,  his  zeal  allow'd, 

You  think  him  humble—God  accounts  him  proud  j 

High  in  demand,  though  lowly  in  pretence, 

Of  ail  his  conduct  this  the  genuine  sense — • 

My  penitential  stripes,  my  streaming  blood, 

Have  pi'.rchas'd  Heav'n,  and  prove  mv  title  good. 

Turn  eastward  now,  and  Fancy  shall  apply 
To  your  weak  sight  her  telescopic  eye. 
The  liramin  kindles  on  his  own  bare  head 
The  sacred  fire,  self-torturing  his  trade, 
His  voluntary  pains,  severe  and  long, 
Would  give  a  barb'rous  air  to  British  song; 
No  grand  inquisitor  could  worse  invent, 
Than  he  contrives  to  suffer,  well  content. 

Which  is  the  saintlier  worthy  of  the  two? 
Past  all  dispute,  yon  anchorite,  say  you. 
Your  sentence  and  mine  differ,     What's  a  name  ? 
1  say  the  Bramin  has  the  fairer  claim. 
If  sufF rings,  Scripture  no  where  recommends, 
Devis'd  by  self  to  answer  selfish  ends, 
Give  saintship,  then  all  Europe  must  agree 
Ten  starv'ling  hermits  suffer  less  than  he. 

The  truth  is  (if  the  truth  may  suit  your  ear, 
And  prejudice  have  left  a  passage  clear), 
Pride  has  attain'd  its  most  luxuriant  growth, 
And  poison'd  ev'ry  virtue  in  them  both. 
Pride  may  be  pamper' d  while  the  flesh  grows  lean 
Humility  may  clothe  an  English  dean; 
That  grace  was  Cowper's — his,  confess' d  by  all — • 
Though  plac'd  in  golden  Durham's  second  stall. 
Not  all  the  plenty  of  a  bishop's  board, 
His  palace,  and  his  lacqueys,  and  "My  Lord," 
More  nourish  pride,  that  condescending  vice, 
Than  abstinence,  and  beggary,  and  lice; 
It  thrive's  in  mis'ry,  and  abundant  grows  : 
In  mis'ry  fools  upon  themselves  impose. 

But  why  before  us  protestants  produce 
An  Indian  mystic,  or  a  French  recluse  ? 
Their  sin  is  plain  ;  but  what  have  we  to  fear, 
Reform'd  and  well  instructed  ?     You  shall  hear. 

Yon  ancient  prude,  whose  wither'd  features  show 
She  might  be  young  some  forty  years  ago, 
Her  elbows  pinion'd  close  upon  her  hips, 
Her  head  erect,  her  fan  upon  her  lips, 


TRUTH.  33 

Her  eye-brows  arch'd,  her  eyes  both  gone  astray 
To  watch  yon  am'rous  couple  in  their  play, 
With  bony  and  unkerchieFd  neck  defies 
The  rude  inclemency  of  wintry  skies, 
And  sails  with  lappet-head  and  mincing  airs 
Duly  at  chink  of  bell  to  morning  pray'rs. 
To  thrift  and  parsimony  much  inclin'd. 
She  yet  allows  herself  that  boy  behind; 
The  shiv'ring  urchin,  bending  as  he  goes, 
With  slipshod  heels,  and  dewdrop  at  his  nose; 
His  predecessor's  coat  advanc'd  to  wear, 
Which  future  pages  yet  are  doom'd  to  share, 
Carries  her  Bible  tuck'd  beneath  his  arm, 
And  hides  his  hands  to  keep  his  fingers  warm. 

She,  half  an  angel  in  her  own  acrount, 
Doubts  not  hereafter  with  the  saints  to  mount, 
Though  not  a  grace  appears  on  strictest  search, 
But  that  she  fasts,  and  item,  goes  to  church. 
Conscious  of  age,  she  recollects  her  youth, 
And  tells,  not  always  with  an  eye  to  truth, 
Who  spann'd  her  waist,  and  who,  where'er  he  came, 
Scrawl'd  upon  glass  Miss  Bridget's  lovely  name; 
Who  stole  her  slipper,  fill'd  it  with  tokay, 
And  drank  the  little  bumper  ev'ry  day. 
Of  temper  as  envenom'd  as  an  asp, 
Censorious,  and  her  ev'ry  word  a  wasp ; 
In  faithful  mem'ry  she  records  the  crimes, 
Or  real  or  fictitious,  of  the  times  ; 
Laughs  at  the  reputations  she  has  torn, 
And  holds  them  dangling  at  arm's  length  in  scorn. 

Such  are  the  fruits  of  sanctimonious  pride, 
Of  malice  fed  while  flesh  is  mortified  : 
Take,  Madam,  the  reward  of  all  your  pray'rs, 
Where  hermits  and  where  Bra:nins  meet  with  theirs  f 
Your  portion  is  with  them. — Nay,  never  frown, 
But,  it  you  please,  some  fathoms  lower  down. 

Artist  attend — your  brushes  and  your  p^int — 
Produce  them — take  a  chair — now  draw  a  saint. 
Oh  sorrowful  and  sad  !  the  streaming  tears 
Channel  her  cheeks — a  Niobe  appears  ! 
Is  this  a  saint  ?     Throw  tints  and  all  away — 
True  Piety  is  cheerful  as  the  day, 
Will  weep  indeed  and  heave  a  pitying  groan 
For  others'  woes,  but  smiles  upon  her  own. 

What  purpose  has  the  King  of  saints  in  view ? 
Why  falls  the  Gospel  like  a  gracious  dew? 
To  c  11  up  plenty  from  the  teeming  earth, 
Or  curse  the  desert  with  a  ten-fold  dearth? 
Is  it  that  Adam's  ofi;pring  may  be  sav'd 


TRUTH 

From  servile  fear,  or  be  the  more  enslav'd  ? 
To  loose  the  links  that  g;dl'd  mankind  before, 
Or  bind  them  faster  on,  and  add  still  more  ? 
The  freeborn  Chiistian  has  no  chains    to  prove. 
Or,  if  a  chain,  the  golden  one  of  love: 
No  fear  attends  to  quench  his  glowing  fires, 
What  fear  he  feels,  his  gratitude  inspires. 
Shall  he,  for  such  deliv'rance  freely  wrought, 
Recompense  ill  ?      He  trembles  at  the  thought. 
His  Master's  int'rest  and  his  own  combin'd 
Prompt  ev'ry  movement  of  his  heart  and  mind: 
Thought,  word,  and  deed  his  liberty  evince, 
His  freedom  is  the  freedom  of  a  prince. 

Man's  obligations  infinite,  of  course 
His  lite  should  prove  that  he  perceives  their  force  j 
His  utmost  he  can  render  is  but  small — 
The  principle  and  motive  all  in  all. 
You  have  two  servants — Tom,  an  arch,  sly  rogue, 
From  top  to  toe  the  Geta  now  in  vogue, 
Genteel  in  figure,  easy  in  address, 
Moves  without  noise,  and  swift  as  an  express, 
Reports  a  message  with  a  pleasing  grace, 
Expert  in  all  the  duties  of  his  place; 
Say,  on  what  hinge  does  his  obedience  move1? 
Has  he  a  world  of  gratitude  and  love? 
"  No,  not  a  spark — 'tis  all  mere  sharper's  play  ; 
He  likes  your  house,  your  housemaid,  and  you    pay  ; 
Reduce  his  wages,  or  get  rid  of  her, 
Tom  quits  you,  with — Your  most  obedient,  Sir. 

The  dinner  serv'd,  Charles  takes  his  usual  stand, 
Watches  your  eye,  anticipates  command  ; 
Sighs  if  perhaps  your  appetite  should  fail ; 
And  if  he  but  suspects  a  frown,  turns  pale  ; 
Consults  all  day  your  int'rest  and  your  ease, 
Richly  rewarded  if  he  can  but  please; 
And,  proud  to  make  his  firm  attachment  known, 
To  save  your  life  would  no'.ly  risk  his  own. 

Now  which  stands  highest  in  your  serious  thought? 
Charles,  without  doubt,  say  you — and  so  he  ought; 
One  act,  that  from  a  thankful  heart  proceeds, 
Excels  ten  thousand  mercenary  deeds. 

Thus  Heav'n  approves,  as  honest  and  sincere, 
The  work  of  gen'rous  love  and  filial  fear  ; 
But  with  averted  eyes  th'  omniscient  Judge 
Scorns  the  base  hireling,  and  the  slavish  drudge. 
Where  dwell  these  matchless  saints?— old  Curio  cries. 
E'en  al  your  side,  Sir,  and  before  your  eyes, 
The  favour'd  few — th'  enthusiasts  you  despise. 
And  pleas'd  at  heart,  because  on  holy  ground 


TRUTH. 

Sometimes  a  canting  hypocrite  is  found, 
Reproach  a  people  with  his  single  fall, 
And  cast  his  filthy  raiment  at  them  all , 
Attend  ! — an  apt  similitude  shall  show 
Whence  springs  the  conduct  that  offends  you  so. 
See  where  it  smokes  along  the  sounding  plain, 
Blown  all  aslant,  a  driving  dashing  rain, 
Peal  upon  peal  redoubling  all  around, 
Shakes  it  again  and  taster  to  the  ground; 
Now  flashing  wide,  now  glancing  as  in  play, 
Swift  beyond  thought  the  lightnings  dart  away. 
Ere  y;  t  it  came  the  trav'ller  urg'd  his  steed, 
And  hurried,  but  with  unsuccessful  speed; 
Now  drench'd  throughout,  and  hopeless  of  his  case, 
He  drops  therein,  and  leaves  him  to  his  pace. 
Suppose,  unlook'd-for  in  a  scene  so  rude, 
Long  hid  by  interposing  hill  or  wood, 
Some  mansion,  neat  and  elegantly  dress'd, 
By  some  kind  hospitable  heart  possess'd, 
Offer  him  warmth,  security,  and  rest ; 
Think  with  what  pleasure,  safe,  and  at  his  ease, 
He  hears  the  tempest  howling  in  the  trees ; 
What  glowing  thanks  his  lips  and  heart  employ, 
While  danger  past  isturn'd  to  present  joy, 
So  fares  it  witli  the  sinner,  when  he  feels 
A  growing  dread  of  vengeance  at  his  heels: 
His  conscience,  like  a  glassy  lake  before, 
Lash'd  into  foaming  waves,  begins  to  roar; 
The  law  grown  clamorous,  though  silent  long, 
Arraigns  him — charges  him  with  ev'ry  wrong — • 
Asserts  the  rights  of  his  offended  Lord, 
And  death  or  restitution  is  the  word  : 
The  last  impossible,  he  fears  the  first, 
And,  having  well  deserv'd,  expects  the  worst. 
Then  welcome  refuge,  and  a  peaceful  home; 
Oh  for  a  shelter  from  the  wrath  to  come! 
Crush  me,  ye  rocks  !  ye  fulling  mountains  hide, 
Or  bury  me  in  ocean's  angry  tide. — 
The  scrutiny  of  those  all-seeing  eyes 
I  dare  not — And  you  need  not,  God  replies  ; 
The  remedy  you  want  I  freely  give: 
The  Book  shall  teach  you — read,  believe,  and  live! 
'Tis  done — the  raging  storm  is  heard  no  more, 
Mercy  receives  him  on  her  peaceful  shore : 
And  Justice,  guardian  of  the  dread  command, 
Drops  the  red  vengeance  from  his  willing  hand. 
A  soul  redeem'd  demands  a  life  ofprai.se  ; 
Hence  the  complexion  of  his  future  days, 
Hence  a  demeanour  holy  and  unspeck'd, 


36  TRUTH. 

And  the  world's  hatred,  as  its  sure  effect. 
Some  lead  a  life  unblameabb  and  just, 
Their  own  dear  virtue  their  unshaken  trust: 
They  never  sin — or  if  (as  all  offend) 
Some  trivial  slips  their  daily  walk  attend, 
The  poor  are  near  at  hand,  the  charge  is  small, 
A  slight  gratuity  atones  for  all. 
For  though  the  pope  has  lost  his  int'rest  here, 
And  pardons  are  not  sold  as  once  they  were, 
No  papist  more  desirous  to  compound, 
Than  some  grave  sinners  upon  English  ground. 
That  plea  refuted,  other  quirks  they  seek — 
Mercy  is  infinite,  and  man  is  weak  ; 
The  future  shall  obliterate  the  past, 
And  Heav'n  no  doubt  shall  he  their  home  at  last. 
Come  then — a  still,  small  whisper  in  your  ear- 
He  has  no  hope  who  never  had  a  fear  ; 
And  he  that  never  doubted  of  his  state, 
He  may  perhaps — perhaps  he  may — too  late. 

The  path  to  bliss  abounds  witb  many  a  snare  ; 
Learning  is  one,  and  wit,  however  rare. 
The  Frenchman,  first  in  literary  fame, 
(Mention  him  if  you  please.     Voltaire  ? — The  same,) 
With  spirit,  genius,  eloquence,  supplied, 
Liv'd  long,  wrote  much,  laugh'd  heartily,  and  died. 
The  Scripture  was  his  jest-book,  whence  he  drew 
Bon  mots  to  gall  the  Christian  and  the  Jew; 
An  infidel  in  health,  but  what  when  sick? 
Oli — then  a  text  would  touch  him  to  the  quick: 
View  him  at  Paris  in  his  last  career, 
Surrounding  throngs  the  demigcd  revere; 
Exalted  on  his  pedestal  of  pride, 
And  fum'd  with  frankincense  on  ev'ryside, 
He  begs  their  flatt'ry  with  his  latest  breath, 
And  smother 'd  in't  at  last,  is  prais'd  to  death. 
Yon  cottager,  who  weaves  at  her  own  door, 
Pillow  and  Dobbins  all  her  little  store; 
Content  though  mean,  and  cheerful  if  not  gay, 
Shuffling  her  threads  about  the  livelong  day, 
Just  earns  a  scanty  pittance,  and  at  night 
Lies  down  secure,  her  heart  and  pocket  light; 
She,  for  her  humble  sphere  by  nature  fit ; 
Has  little  understanding,  and  no  wit, 
Receives  no  praise  ;   but,  though  her  lot  be  such, 
(Toilsome  and  indigent)  she  renders  much  ; 
Just  knows,  and  knows  no  more,  her  Bible  true— 
A  truth  the  brilliant  Frenchman  never  knew; 
And  in  that  charter  reads  with  sparkling  eyes 
Her  title  to  a  treasure  in  the  skies. 


TRUTH. 

O  happy  peasant !   Oh  unhappy  bard  ! 
His  the  mere  tinsel,  hers  the  rich  reward; 
He  prais'd  perhaps  for  ages  yet  to  come, 
She  never  heard  of  half  a  mile  from  home  : 
He  lost  in  errors  his  vain  heart  prefers, 
She  safe  in  the  simplicity  of  hers. 

Not  many  wise,  rich,  noble,  or  profound 
In  science.-,  win  one  inch  of  heav'nly  ground. 
And  is  it  not  a  mortifying  thought 
The  poor  should  gain  it,  and  the  rich  should  not? 
No — the  vol  iptuaries,  who  ne'er  forget 
One  pleasure  lost,  lose  Heav'n  without  regret; 
Regret  would  rouse  them,  and  give  birth  to  pray'r ; 
Pray'r  woul  I  add  faith,  and  faith  would  fix  them  there. 
Not  that  the  Former  of  us  all,  in  this, 
Or  au^-ht  he  does,  ie  govern'd  by  caprice  ; 
The  supposition  is  replete  with  sin, 
And  bears  the  brand  of  blasphemy  burnt  in. 
Not  so— the  silver  trumpet's  heav'nly  call 
Sounds  for  the  poor,  but  sounds  alike  for  all : 
Kings  are  invited,  and  would  kings  obey, 
No  slaves  on  earth  more  welcome  were  than  they : 
But  royalty,  nobility,  and  state, 
Are  such  a  dead  preponderating  weight, 
That  endless  hliss  (how  strange  soe'er  it  seem) 
In  counterpoise,  flies  up  and  kicks  the  beam. 
'Tis  open,  and  ye  cannot  enter — why  ? 
Because  ye  will  not,  Conyers  would  reply— 
And  he  says  much  that  many  may  dispute, 
And  cavil  at  with  ease,  but  none  refute. 
O  ble^s'd  effect  of  penury  and  want ; 
The  seed  sown  there,  how  vigorous  is  the  plant! 
No  soil  like  poverty  for  growth  divine, 
As  leanest  land  supplies  the  richest  wine. 
Earth  gives  too  little,  giving  only  bread, 
To  nourish  pride,  or  turn  the  weakest  head; 
To  them  the  sounding  jargon  of  the  schools 
Seems  what  it  is — a  cap  and  hell  for  fools  : 
The  light  they  walk  by,  kindled  from  above, 
Shows  them  the  shortest  way  to  life  and  love : 
Th  -y,  strangers  to  the  controversial  field, 
Where  deists,  always  foil'd,  yet  scorn  to  yield, 
And  never  check'd  by  what  impedes  the  wise, 
Believe,  rush  forward,  and  possess  the  prize. 

Envy,  ye  great,  the  dull  unletter'd  small  : 
Ye  ha.ve  much  cause  for  envy — but  not  all. 
We  bonst  some  rich  ones  whom  the  Gospel  sway*, 
And  one  who  wears  a  coronet  and  prays  ; 
Like  gleanings  of  an  olive-tree  they  show, 

E 


TRUTH. 

Here  and  there  one  upon  the  topmost  bough. 

How  readily  upon  the  Gospel  plan, 
That  question  has  its  answer — What  is  man  ? 
Sinful  and  weak,  in  ev'ry  sense  a  wretch  ; 
An  instrument,  whose  chords  upon  the  stretch, 
And  strain'd  to  the  last  screw  that  he  can  bear, 
Yield  only  discord  in  his  Maker's  ear: 
Once  the  blest  residence  of  truth  divine, 
Glorious  as  Solyma's  interior  shrine, 
Where,  in  his  own  oracular  abode, 
Dwelt  visibly  the  light-creating  God; 
But  made  long  since,  like  Babylon  of  old, 
A  den  of  mischiefs  never  to  be  told : 
And  she,  once  mistress  of  the  realms  around, 
Now  scatter'd  wide,  and  no  where  to  be  found, 
As  soon  shall  rise  and  reascend  the  throne, 
By  native  pow'r  and  energy  her  own, 
As  Nature,  at  her  own  peculiar  cost, 
Restore  to  man  the  glories  he  has  lost. 
Go — bid  the  winter  cease  to  chill  the  year, 
Replace  the  wand'ring  comet  in  his  sphere, 
Then  boast   (but  wait  for  that  unhop'd-for  hour) 
The  self-restoring  arm  of  human  power. 
But  what  is  man  in  his  own  proud  esteem  ? 
Hear  him — himself  the  poet  and  the  theme: 
A  monarch  cloth'd  with  majesty  and  awe, 
His  mind  his  kingdom,  and  his  will  his  law, 
Grace  in  his  mien,  and  glory  in  his  eyes, 
Supreme  on  earth,  and  worthy  of  the  skies, 
Strength  in  his  heart,  dominion  in  his  nod, 
And,  thunderbolts  excepted,  quite  a  God  ! 
So  sings  he,  charm'd  with  his  own  mind  and  form, 
The  song  magnificent — the  theme  a  worm  ! 
Himself  so  much  the  source  of  his  delight, 
His  Maker  has  no  beauty  in  his  sis;ht. 
See  where  he  sits,  contemplative  and  fix'd, 
Pleasure  and  wonder  in  his  features  mix'd, 
His  passions  tam'd  and  all  at  his  control, 
How  perfect  the  composure  of  his  soul ! 
Complacency  has  breath'd  a  gentle  gale 
O'er  all  his  thoughts,  and  swell'd  his  easy  sail : 
His  books  well  trimm'd  and  in  the  gayest  style, 
Like  regimental  coxcombs,  rank  and  file, 
Adorn  his  intellects  as  well  as  shelves, 
And  teach  him  notions  splendid  as  themselves 
The  Bible  only  stands  neglected  there, 
Though  that  of  all  most  worthy  of  iius  care  ; 
And,  like  an  infant  troublesome  awake, 
Is  left  to  sleep  for  peace  and  quiet's  sake. 


TRUTH.  39 

What  shall  the  man  deserve  of  human  kind, 
Whose  happy  skill  and  industry  comhin'd 
Shall  prove   (what  argument  could  never  yet) 
The  Bible  an  impostuie  a<  il  a  cheat  ? 
The  praises  of  the  libertine  professed, 
The  worst  of  men,  and  curses  of  the  best. 
Where  should  the  living,  weeping  o'er  his  woes  ; 
The  dying,  trembling  at  the  awful  close  ; 
Where  the  betray'd,  forsaken,  and  oppress'd, 
The  thousands  whom  the  world  forbids  to  rest  ; 
Where  should  they  rind  (those  comforts  at  an  end 
The  Scripture  yields,)  or  hope  to  find,  a  friend? 
Sorrow  might  muse  herself  to  madness  then, 
And,  seeking  exile  from  the  sight  of  men, 
Bury  herself  in  solitude  profound, 
Grow  frantic  with  her  pangs,  and  bite  the  ground. 
Thus  often  Unbelief,  grown  sick  of  life, 
Flies  to  the  tempting  pool,  or  felon  knife. 
The  jury  meet,  the  coroner  is  short, 
And  lunacy  the  verdict  of  the  court; 
Reverse  the  sentence,  let  the  truth  be  known, 
Such  lunacy  is  ignorance  alone ; 
They  knew  not,  what  some  bishops  may  not  know, 
That  Scripture  is  the  only  cure.of  woe; 
That  field  of  promise,  how  it  flings  abroad 
Its  odour  o'er  the  Christian's  thorny  road! 
The    soul,  reposing  on  assur'd  relief, 
Feels  herself  happy  amidst  all  her  grief, 
Forgets  her  labour  as  she  toils  along, 
Weeps  tears  of  joy,  and  bursts  into  a  song. 

But  the  same  word,  that,  like  the  polish'd  share, 
Ploughs  up  the  roots  of  a  believer's  care, 
Kills  too  the  flow'ry  weeds,  where'er  they  grow, 
That  bind  the  sinner's  Bacchanalian  brow. 
Oh  that  unwelcome  voice  of  heavenly  love, 
Sad  messenger  ot  mercy  from  above  ! 
How  does  it  grate  upon  his  thankless  ear, 
Crippling  his  pleasures  with  the  cramp  of  fear! 
His  will  and  judgment  at  continual  strife, 
Tliar  civil  war  e-iibitters  all  his  life: 
In  vain  he  points  his  pow'rs  against  the  skies, 
In  vain  he  closes  or  averts  his  eyes, 
Truth  will  intrude — she  bids  him  yet  beware; 
And  shakes  the  sceptic  in  the  scorner's  chair. 

Though  various  foes  against  the  Truth  combine, 
Pride  above  all  opposes  her  design  ; 
Pride,  of  a  growth  superior  to  the  rest, 
Ti.e  subtlest  serpent  with  the  loftiest  crest, 
Swells  at  the  thought,  and,  kindl.ng  into  rage, 


40  TRUTH 

Would  hiss  the  cherub  Mercy  from  the  stage. 

And  is  the  soul  indeed  so  lost  ? — she  cries, 
Fall* n  from  her  glory,  and  too  weak  to  rise? 
Torpid  and  dull  beneath  a  frozen  zone, 
Has  she  no  spark  that  may  be  deem'd  her  own  ? 
Grant  her  indebted  to  what  zealots  call 
Grace  undeserv'd,  yet  surely  not  for  ail — 
Some  beams  of  rectitude  she  yet  displays, 
Some  love  of  virtue,  and  some  pow'r  to  praise  ;— 
Can  lift  herself  above  coporeal  things, 
And,  soaring  on  her  own  unborrow'd  wings, 
Possess  herself  of  all  that's  good  or  true, 
Assert  the  skies,  and  vindicate  her  due. 
Past  indiscretion  is  a  venial  crime, 
And  if  the  youth,  unmellow'd  yet  by  time, 
Bore  on  his  branch,  luxuriant  then  and  rude, 
Fruits  of  a  blighted  size,  austere  and  crude, 
Maturer  years  shall  happier  stores  produce, 
And  meliorate  the  well-concocted  juice. 
Then,  conscious  of  her  meritorious  zeal, 
To  justice  she  may  m%ke  her  bold  appeal, 
And  leave  to  mercy,  with  a  tranquil  mind, 
The  worthless  and  unfruitful  of  mankind. 
Hear  then  how  Mercy,  slighted  and  detied, 
Retorts  th'atfront  against  the  crown  of  Pride 

Perish  the  virtue,  as  it  ought,  abhorr'd. 
And  the  fool  with  it,  who  insults  his  Lord. 
Th'atonement,  a  Redeemer's  love  has  wrought, 
Is  not  for  you— the  righteous  need  it  not. 
Seest  thou  yon  harlot,  wooing  all  she  meets, 
The  worn-out  nuisance  of  the  public  streets, 
Herself  from  morn  to  night,  from  night  to  morn, 
Her  own  abhorrence,  and  as  much  your  scorn 
The  gracious  show'r,  unlimited  and  free, 
Shall  fall  on  her,  when  Heav'n  denies  it  thee. 
Of  all  that  wisdom  dictates,  this  the  drift, 
That  mm  is  dead  in  sin,  and  life  a  gift. 

Is  virtut-,  then,  unless  of  Christian  growth, 
Mere  fallacy,  or  foolishness,  or  both  ? 
Ten  thousand  sages  lost  in  endless  woe, 
Foi  ignorance  of  what  they  could  not  know? 
That  speech  betrays  at  once  a  bigot's  tongue, 
Charge  not  a  God  with  such  outrageous  wrong. 
Truly  not   I — the  partial  light  men  have, 
My  creed  persuades  me,  well-employ'd,  may  save; 
While  he  that  scorns  the  noonday  beam,  perverse, 
Shall  find  the  blessing  uniniprov'd  a  curse. 
Let  heathen  worthies,  whose  exalted  mind 
Left  sensuality  and  dross  behind, 


TRUTH.  41 

Possess  for  me  the  uudisputed  lot, 

Ami  take  uuenvitd  the  reward  they  sought: 

But  still  in  virtue  of  a  Saviour's  plea, 

Not  blind  by  choice,  hut  destin'd  not  to  see. 

Their  fortitude  and  wisdom  were  a  flame 

Celestial,  though  they  knew  not  whence  it  came, 

Denv'd  from  the  same  source  of  light  and  grace, 

That  guides  the  Christian  in  his  swil'ter  race  ; 

Their  judge  was  conscience,  and  her  rule  their  law, 

That  rule,  pursued  with  reverence  and  with  awe, 

Led  them,  however  falt'ring,  faint,  and  slow, 

From  what  they  knew,  to  what  they  wish'd  to  know. 

But  let  not  him,  that  shares  a  brighter  day, 

Traduce  the  splendour  of  a  noontide  ray, 

Prefer  the  twilight  of  a  darker  time, 

And  deem  his  base  stupidity  no  crime  : 

The  wretch,  who  slights  the  bounty  of  the  skies, 

And  sinks,  while  favour'd  with  the  means  to  rise, 

Shall  find  them  rated  at  their  full  amount; 

The  good  he  scorn'd  all  carried  to  account. 

Marshalling  all  his  terrors  as  he  came, 
Thunder,  and  earthquake,  and  devouring  flame, 
From  Sinai's  top  Jehovah  gave  the  law, 
Life  for  obedience,  death  for  ev'ry  flaw. 
When  the  great  Sovereign  would  his  will  express, 
He  gives  a  perfect  rule  ;    what  can  he  less  ? 
And  guards  it  with  a  sanction  as  severe 

As  vengeance  can  inflict,  or  sinners  fear  : 

Else  his  own  glorious  rights  he  would  disclaim, 

And  man  might  safely  trifle  with  his  name. 

He  bids  him  glow  with  unremitting  love 

To  all  on  earth,  and  to  himself  above  ; 

Con  letnns  th'inj  irious  deed,  the  sland'rous  tongue, 

The  thought  that  meditates  a  brother's  wrong 
i  rings  not  alone  the  more  conspicuous  part, 

His  conduct,  to  the  test,  but  tries  his  heart. 
Hark  !  universal  nature  shook  and  groan'd, 

'Twas  the  last  trumpet — see  the  Judge  enthron'd  : 

Rouse  all  your  courage  at  your  utmost  need, 

Now  summon  ev'ry  virtue,  stand  and  plead. 

What !   silent :    Is  your  boasting  heard  no  more  ? 

That  self-renouncing  wisdom,  learn'd  before, 

Had  shed  immortal  glories  on  your  brow, 

' i  hat  all  your  virtues  cannot  purchase  now. 
All  joy  to  the  believer  !    He  can  speak — 

Trembling  yet  happy,  confident  yet  meek. 

Since  the  dear  hour,  that  brought  me  to  thy  foot, 

And  cut  up  all  my  follies  by  the  root, 

I  never  trusted  in  an  arm  but  thine, 

E  2 


42  TRUTH. 

Nor  hop'd,  but  in  thy  righteousness  divine  ', 
My  pray'rs  and  alms,  imperfect  and  defil'd, 
Were  but  the  feeble  efforts  of  a  child : 
Howe'er  perform'd,  it  was  their  brightest  part, 
That  they  proceeded  from  a  grateful  heart ; 
Cleans'd  in  thine  own  all  purifying  blood, 
Forgive  their  evil,  and  accept  their  good; 
I  cast  them  at  thy  feet — my  only  plea 
Is  what  it  was,  dependence  upon  thee, 
While  struggling  in  the  vale  of  tears  below, 
That  never  fail'd,  nor  shall  it  fail  me  now. 
Angelic  gratulations  rend  the  skies, 
Pride  falls  unpitied,  never  more  to  rise, 
Humility  is  crown'd,  and  faith  receives  the  prize. 


EXPOSTULATION. 


« Tantane,  tarn  patiens,  nullo  certamine  tolli 
Dona  sines?'  Virg. 


Why  weeps  the  muse  for  England  ?     What  appears 
In  England's  case,  to  move  the  muse  to  tears  1 
From  side  to  side  of  her  delighful  isle 
Is  she  not  cloth'd  with  a  perpetual  smile  ? 
Can  Nature  add  a  charm,  or  Art  confer 
A  new-found  luxury  not  seen  in  her  ? 
Where  under  heav'n  is  pleasure  more  pursued, 
Or  where  does  cold  reflection  less  intrude  ? 
Her  fields  a  rich  expanse  of  wavy  corn, 
Pour'd  out  from  Plenty's  overflowing  horn; 
Ambrosial  gardens,  in  which  Art  supplies 
The  fervour  and  the  force  of  Indian  skies; 
Her  peaceful  shores,  where  busy  Commerce  waits 
To  pour  his  golden  tide  through  all  her  gates  ; 
Whom  fiery  suns,  that  scorch  the  russet  spice 
Of  eastern  groves,  and  oceans  floor'd  with  ice, 
Forbid  in  vain  to  push  his  daring  way 
To  darker  climes,  or  climes  of  brighter  day ; 
Whom  the  winds  waft  where'er  the  billows  roll, 
From  the  world's  girdle  to  the  frozen  pole  ; 
The  chariots  bounding  in  her  wheel-worn  streets, 
Her  vaults  below,  where  ev'ry  vintage  meets ; 
Her  theatres,  her  revels,  and  her  sports  ; 
The  scenes  to  which  not  youth  alone  resorts, 
But  age,  in  spite  of  weakness  and  of  pain, 
Still  haunts,  in  hope  to  dream  of  youth  again  ; 
All  speak  her  h-ippy:  let  the  muse  look  round 
From  East  to  West,  no  sorrow  can  be  found ; 
Or  only  what,  in  cottages  confin'd, 
Sighs  unregarded  to  the  passing  wind. 
Tnen  wherefore  weep  for  England?     What  appears 
In  England's  case,  to  move  the  muse  to  tears  ? 


EXPOSTULATION 

The  prophet  wept  for  Israel ;  wish'd  his  eyes 
Were  fountains  fed  with  infinite  supplies  : 
For  Israel  dealt  in  robbery  and  wrong  ; 
There  were  the  scorner's  and  the  sland'rer's  tongue; 
Oaths,  us'd  as  playthings  or  convenient  tools, 
As  int'rest  biass'd  knaves,  or  fashion  fools; 
Adult'ry,  neighing  at  his  neighbour's  door; 
Oppression,  lab'ring  hard  to  grind  the  poor; 
The  partial  bal.mce,  and  deceitful  weight; 
The  treach'rous  smile,  a  mask  for  secret  hate  ; 
Hypocrisy,  formality  in  pray'r, 
And  the  dull  service  of  the  lip  were  there. 
Her  women,  insolent  and  self- car  ess' d, 
By  Vanity's  unwearied  finger  dress'd, 
Forgot  the  blush,  that  virgin  fears  impart 
To  modest  cheeks,  and  boiTow'd  one  from  art ; 
Were  just  such  trifles,  without  worth  or  use, 
As  silly  pride  and  idleness  produce  ; 
Curl'd,  scented,  furbelow'd,  and  flounc'd  around, 
With  feet  too  delicate  to  touch  the  ground, 
They  stretch'd  the  neck,  and  roll'd  the  wanton  eye, 
And  sigh'd  for  every  fool  that  flutter'd  by. 

He  saw  his  people  slaves  to  every  lust, 
Lew'd,  avaricious,  arrogant,  unjust; 
He  heard  the  wheels  of  an  avenging  God 
Groan  heavily  along  the  distant  road ; 
Saw  Babylon  set  wide  her  two-leav'd  brass 
To  let  the  military  deluge  pass  ; 
Jerusalem  a  prey,  her  glory  soil'd, 
Her  princes  captive,  and  her  treasures  spoil'd  ; 
Wept  till  all  Israel  heard  his  bitter  cry, 
Stamp'd  with  his  foot,  and  smote  upon  his  thigh: 
But  wept,  and  stamp'd,  and  smote  his  thigh  in  vain ; 
Pleasure  is  deaf  when  to!d  of  future  pain, 
And  sounds  prophetic  are  too  rough  to  suit 
Ears  long  accustom'd  to  the  pleasing  lute  : 
They  scorn 'd  his  inspiration  and  his  theme, 
Pronounc'd  him  frantic,  and  his  fears  a  dream ; 
With  self-indulgence  wing'd  the  fleeting  hours, 
Till  the  foe  found  them,  and  down  fell  the  tow'rs. 

Long  time  Assyria  bound  them  in  her  chain, 
Till  penitence  had  purg'd  the  public  stain, 
And  Cyrus,  with  relenting  pity  mov'd, 
Return'd  them  happy  to  the  land  they  lov'd ; 
There,  proof  against  prosperity,  a  while 
They  stood  the  test  of  her  ensnaring  smile, 
And  had  the  grace  in  scenes  of  peace  to  show 
The  virtue  tney  had  learn 'd  in  scenes  of  woe. 
But  man  is  frail,  and  can  but  ill  sustain 


EXPOSTULATION.  45 

A  long  immunity  from  grief  and  pain  ; 

A  IK!  ;ti'uT  all  the  joys  that  Plenty  leads, 

Wic'i  ti,)to>'  step  Vice  silently  succeeds. 

When  he  that  rul'd  tlieai  with  a  shepherd's  rod, 

In  fbr.ii  a  man,  in  dignity  a  God, 

Came,  not  expected  in  that  humble  guise, 

To  sift  and  search  them  with  unerring  eyes, 

He  found,  coneeal'd  beneath  a  fair  outside, 

The  tilth  of  rottenness,  and  worm  of  pride  ; 

Their  piety  a  system  of  deceit, 

Scripture  employ'd  to  sanctify  the  cheat ; 

The  Pharisee  the  dupe  of  his  own  art, 

Self-idoliz'd,  and  yet  a  knave  at  heart. 
When  nations  are  to  perish  in  their  sins, 

'Tis  in  the  church  the  leprosy  begins  ; 

The  priest,  whose  office  is  with  zeal  sincere 

To  watch  the  fountain,  and  preserve  it  clear, 

Carelessly  nods  and  sleeps  upon  the  the  brink, 

While  others  poison  what  the  flock  must  drink ; 

Or,  waking  at  the  call  of  lust  alone, 

Infuses  lies  and  errors  of  his  own  ; 

His  unsuspecting  sheep  believe  it  pure  ; 

And,  tainted  by  the  very  means  of  cure, 

Catch  from  each  other  a  contagious  spot, 

The  foul  forerunner  of  a  gen'ral  rot. 

Then  Truth  is  hush'd,  that  Heresy  may  preach; 

And  all  is  trash,  that  Reason  cannot  reach  ; 
Then  God's  own  image  on  the  soul  impress'd 

Becomes  a  mockery,  and  a  standing  jest ; 
And  faith,  the  root  whence  only  can  arise 

The  graces  of  a  life  that  wins  the  skies, 
Lo^es  at  once  all  value  and  esteem, 
Pronounc'd  by  graybeards  a  pernicious  dream  : 
Then  Ceremony  leads  her  bigots  forth, 
Prepar'd  to  fight  for  shadows  of  no  worth ; 

While  truths,  on  which  eternal  things  depend, 
Find  not,  or  hardly  find,  a  single  friend  : 
As  sol.iiers  watch  the  signal  of  command, 
They  learn  to  bow,  to  kneel,  to  sit,  to  stand  ; 
Happy  to  fill  religion's  vacant  place 
With  hollow  form,  and  gesture,  and  grimace. 

Such,  when  the  Teacher  of  his  church  was  there, 
People  and  priest,  the  sons  of  Irsael  were ; 
Stiff  in  the  letter,  lax  in  the  design 
And  import,  of  their  oracles  divine; 
Their  learning  legendary,  false,  absurd, 
And  yet  exalted  above  God's  own  word; 
They  drew  :i  curse  from  an  intended  good, 
Puff'd  up  with  gifts  they  never  understood. 


IXPOSTULATION. 

He  judg'd  them  with  as  terrible  a  frown, 

As  it'  not  love,  but  wrath,  had  brought  him  down* 

Yet  he  was  gentle  as  soft  sum  ner  airs, 

Had  grace  for  others'  sins,  but  not  for  theirs; 

Through  all  he  spoke  a  noble  plainness  ran — 

Rhet'ric  is  artifice,  the  work  of  man  ; 

And  tricks  and  turns,  that  fancy  may  demise, 

Are  far  too  mean  for  Him  that  rules  the  skies. 

Th'astonish'd  vulgar  trembled  when  he  tore 

The  mask  from  faces  never  seen  before  ; 

He  scripp'd  th'impostors  in  the  noonday  sun, 

Sliow'd  that  they  follow'd  all  they  seem'd  to  shua; 

Their  pray'rs  made  public,  their  excesses  kept 

As  private  as  the  cham  )ers  where  they  slept ; 

The  temple  and  its  holy  rites  profan'd 

By  mumm'ries,  he  that  dwelt  in  it  disdain'd  ; 

Uplifted  hands,  that  at  convenient  times 

Could  act  extortion  and  the  worst  of  crimes, 

Wash'd  with  a  neatness  scrupulously  nice, 

And  free  from  ev'ry  taint  but  that  of  vice. 

Judgment,  however  tardy,  mends  her  pace 

When  Obstinacy  once  has  conquer'd  Grace. 

They  saw  distemper  heal'd,  and  life  restor'd, 

In  answer  to  the  fiat  of  his  word ; 

Confess'd  the  wonder,  and  with  daring  tongue 

Blasphem'd  th'authority  from  which  it  sprung. 

They  knew  by  sure  prognostics  seen  on  high, 

The  future  tone  and  temper  of  the  sky  ; 

But,  grave  dissemblers  !  could  not  understand 

That  Sin  let  loose  speaks  Punishment  at  hand. 

Ask  now  of  history's  authentic  page, 
And  call  up  evidence  from  ev'ry  age ; 
Display  with  busy  and  laborious  hand 
The  blessings  of  the  most  indebted  land  ; 
What  nation  will  you  find,  whose  annals  prove 
So  rich  an  int'rest  in  almighty  love  ? 
Where  dwell  they  now,  where  dwelt,  in  ancient  day 
A  people  planted,  water'd,  blest  as  they  ? 
Let  Egypt's  plagues  and  Canaan's  woes  proclaim 
The  favours  pour'd  upon  the  Jewish  name  ; 
Their  freedom  purchas'd  for  them  at  the  cost 
Of  all  their  hard  oppressors  valued  most ; 
Their  title  to  a  country  not  their  own 
Made  sure  by  prodigies  till  then  unknown; 
For  them  the  states  they  left,  made  waste  and  void; 
For  them  the  states  to  which  they  went,  destroy'd  ; 
A  cloud  to  measure  out  their  march  by  day, 
By  night  a  fire  to  cheer  the  gloomy  way  ; 
That  moving  signal  summoning,  when  best, 


EXPOSTULATION. 

Their  host  to  move,  and  when  it  stay'd  to  rest. 
For  them  the  rocks  dissolv'd  into  a  flood, 
1  he  dews  condens'd  into  angelic  food, 
Their  very  garments  sacred,  old  yet  new, 
And  time  forbid  to  touch  them  as  he  flew  ; 
Streams,  swell'd  above  the  hank,  enjoin'd  to  stand, 
\Yhile  they  pass'd  through  to  their  appointed  land; 
Their  leader  arm'd  with  meekness,  zeal,  and  love, 
And  grac'd  with  clear  credentials  from  above  ; 
Themselves  secur'd  beneath  th'Almig-hty  wing  ! 
Their  God  their  captain,  lawgiver,  and  king; 
Crown'd  with  a  thousand  vict'ries,  and  at  last 
Lords  of  the  conquer'd  soil,  there  rooted  fast, 
In  peace  possessing  what  they  won  by  war, 
Their  name  far  publish'd  and  rever'd  as  far  ; 
"Where  will  you  find  a  race  like  theirs,  endow'd 
With  all  that  man  e'er  wish'd,  or  Heav'n  bestow'd  ? 

They,  and  they  only,  amongst  all  mankind, 
Receiv'd  the  transcript  of  th'eternal  mind  ; 
Were  trusted  with  his  own  engraven  laws, 
And  constituted  guardians  of  his  cause; 
Theirs  w^re  the  prophets,  theirs  the  priestly  call, 
And  theirs  by  birth  the  Saviour  of  us  all. 
In  vain  the  nations,  that  had  seen  them  rise 
Writh  fierce  and  envious  yet  admiring  eyes, 
Had  sought  to  crush  them,  guarded  as  they  were 
By  pow'r  divine,  and  skill  that  could  not  err. 
Had  they  maintain'd  allegiance  firm  and  sure, 
And  kept  the  faith  immaculate  and  pure, 
Then  the  proud  eagles  of  all-conqu'ring  Rome 
Had  found  one  city  not  to  be  o'ercome; 
And  the  twelve  standards  of  the  tribes  unfurl'd 
Had  bid  defiance  to  the  warring  world. 
But  grace  abus'd  brings  forth  the  foulest  deeds, 
As  richest  soil  the  most  luxuriant  weeds. 
Cur'd  of  the  golden  calves,  their  fathers'  sin, 
They  set  up  self,  that  idol  god  within  ; 
View'd  a  Deliv'rer  with  disdain  and  hate, 
Who  left  them  still  a  tributary  state ; 
Seiz'd  fast  his  hand,  held  out  to  set  them  free 
From  a  worse  yoke,  and  nail'd  it  to  the  tree: 
There  was  the  consummation  and  the  crown, 
The  flow'r  of  Israel's  infamy  full  blown  ; 
Thence  date  their  sad  declension  and  their  fall, 
Their  woes  not  yetrepeal'd,  thence  date  them  aJ. 

Thus  fell  the  best  instructed  in  her  day, 
And  the  most  favour'd  land,  look  where  we  may. 
Philosophy  indeed  on  Grecian  eyes 
Had  pour'd  the  day,  and  clear'd  the  Roman  skies ; 


48  EXPOSTULATION. 

[n  other  climes  perhaps  creative  Art, 

With  pow'r  surpassing  theirs,  perform'd  hpr  part, 

Might  give  more  life  to  marble,  or  might  fill 

The  glowing  tablets  with  a  juster  skill, 

Might  shine  in  fable,  and  grace  idle  themes 

With  all  th'embroid'ry  of  poetic  dreams; 

'Twas  theirs  alone  to  dive  into  the  plan, 

That  Truth  and  Mercy  had  reveal'd  to  man ; 

And  while  the  World  beside,  that  plan  unknown, 

Deified  useless  wood,  or  senseless  stone, 

They  breath'd  in  faith  their  well-directed  pray'rs, 

And  the  true  God,  the  God  of  truth,  was  theirs. 

Their  glory  faded,  and  their  race  dispers'd, 
The  last  of  nations  now,  though  once  the  first ; 
They  warn  and  teach  the  proudest,  would  they  learn, 
Keep  wisdom,  or  meet  vengeance  in  your  turn  : 
If  we  e?cap'd  not,  if  Heav'n  spar'd  not  us, 
Peel'd,  scatter 'd,  and  exterminated  thus  ; 
Jf  Vice  receiv'd  her  retribution  due, 
When  we  were  visited,  what  hope  for  you  1 
When  God  arises  with  an  awful  frown 
To  punish  lust,  or  pluck  presumption  down ; 
When  gifts  perverted,  or  not  duly  priz'd, 
Pleasure  o'ervalued,  and  his  grace  despis'd, 
Provoke  the  vengeance  of  his  righteous  hand, 
To  pour  down  wrath  upon  a  thankless  land,; 
He  will  be  found  impartially  severe, 
Too  just  to  wink,  or  speak  the  guilty  clear. 

Oh  Israel,  of  all  nations  most  undone  ! 
Thy  diadem  displac'd,  thy  sceptre  gone ; 
Thy  temple,  once  thy  glory,  fall'n  and  ras'd. 
And  thuu  a  worshipper  e'en  where  thou  maysc; 
Thy  services,  once  holy,  without  spot, 
Mere  shadows  now,  their  ancient  pomp  forgot ; 
Thy  Levites,  once  a  consecrated  host, 
No  longer  Levites,  and  their  lineage  lost, 
And  thou  thyself  o'er  ev'ry  country  sown, 
With  none  on  Earth  that  thou  canst  call  thine  own  ; 
Cry  aloud,  thou  that  sittest  in  the  dust, 
Cry  to  the  proud,  the  cruel,  and  unjust; 
Knock  at  the  gates  of  nations,  rouse  their  fears  ; 
Say  wrath  is  coming,  and  the  storm  appears; 
But  raise  the  shrillest  cry  in  British  ears. 

What  ails  thee,  restless  as  the  waves  that  rear, 
And  fling  their  foam  against  thy  chalky  shore? 
Mistress,  at  least  while  Providence  shall  please, 
And  trident-bearing  queen  of  the  wide  seas — 
Why,  having  kept  good  faith,  and  often  sh<  \vn 
Friendship  and  truth  to  others,  find'st  UI.AI  none  I 


EXPOSTULATION.  49 

Thru  that  hast  set  the  persecuted  free, 

None  interposes  now  to  succour  thee. 

Countries  indebted  to  thy  pow'r,  that  shine 

With   ight  deriv'd  from  thee,  would  smcther  thine; 

Thy  veiy  children  watch  for  thy  disgrace — 

A  lawless  brood,  and  curse  thee  to  thy  face. 

Thy  ru'ers  load  thy  credit,  year  by  year, 

With  sums  Peruvian  mines  could  never  clear; 

As  if,  like  arches  built  with  skilful  hand, 

The  more  'twere  press'd  the  firmer  it  would  stand. 

The  cry  in  all  thy  ships  is  still  the  same, 
Speed  us  away  to  battle  and  to  fame. 
Thy  mariners  explore  the  wide  expanse, 
I ii. patient  to  descry  the  flags  of  France  ; 
But,  though  they  fight  as  thine  have  ever  fought, 
Return  asham'd  without  the  wreaths  they  sought. 
Thy  senate  is  a  scene  of  civil  jar, 
Chaos  of  contrarieties  at  war; 
Where  sharp  and  solid,  phlegmatic  and  light, 
Discordant  atoms  meet,  ferment,  and  fight ; 
Where  Obstinacy  takes  his  sturdy  stand, 
To  di>concert  what  Policy  has  plann'd  ; 
Where  Policy  is  busied  all  uight  long 
In  setting  right  what  Faction  has  set  wrong; 
Where  fLils  of  oratory  thrash  the  floor, 
That  yields  them  chaff  and  dust,  and  nothing  more. 
Thy  rack'd  inhabitants  repine,  complain, 
Tax'd  till  the  brow  of  Labour  sweats  in  vain ; 
War  lays  a  burden  on  the  reeling  state, 
And  peace  does  nothing  to  relieve  the  weight; 
Successive  loads  succeeding  broils  impose, 
And  sighing  millions  prophesy  the  close. 

is  adverse  Providence,  when  ponder'd  well, 
So  dimly  writ,  or  difficult  to  spell, 
Thou  canst  not  read  with  read  ness  and  ease 
Providence  adverse  in  events  like  these? 
Know  then  that  heav'nly  wisdom  on  this  ball 
Creates,  gives  birth  to,  guides,  consummates  al'. ; 
That,  while  laborious  and  quick-thoughted  man 
Snuffs  up  the  praise  of  what  he  seems  to  plan, 
He  first  conceives,  then  perfects  his  design. 
As  a  mere  instrument  in  hands  divine: 
Blind  to  the  working  of  that  secret  pow'r, 
Th;it  balances  the  wings  of  ev'ry  hour, 
The  busy  t  iHer  dreams  himself  alone. 
Frames  many  a  purpose,  and  God  works  his  own. 
States  thrive  and  wither  as  moons  wax  and  wane, 
E'en  as  his  will  and  his  decrees  ordain  ; 
While  honour,  virtue,  piety,  bear  sway, 


50  EXPOSTULATION. 

They  flourish;  and  as  these  decline,  decay: 

In  just  resentment  of  his  injur'd  laws, 

He  pours  contempt  on  them  and  on  their  cause ; 

Strikes  the  rough  chread  of  error  right  athwart 

The  web  of  ev'ry  scheme  they  have  at  heart; 

Bids  rottenness  invade  and  bring  to  dust 

The  pillars  of  support,  in  which  they  trust, 

And  do  his  errand  of  disgrace  and  shame 

On  the  chief  strength  and  glory  of  the  frame. 

None  ever  yet  impeded  what  he  wrought, 

None  bars  him  out  from  his  most  secret  thought: 

D  trkness  itself  before  his  eye  is  light, 

And  hell's  close  mischief  naked  in  his  sight. 

Stand  now  and  judge  thyself— Hast  thou  incurr'd 
His  anger,  who  can  waste  thee  with  a  word, 
Who  poises  and  proportions  sea  and  land, 
Weighing  them  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 
And  in  whose  awful  sight  all  nations  seem 
As  grasshoppers,  as  dust,  a  drop,  a  dream  ? 
Hast  thou  (a  sacrilege  his  soul  abhors) 
Claim'd  all  the  glory  of  thy  prosp'rous  wars? 
Proud  of  thy  fleets  and  armies,  stol'n  the  gem 
Of  his  just  praise,  to  lavish  it  on  them  '! 
Hast  thou  not  learn'd,  what  thou  art  often  told, 
A  truth  still  sacred,  and  beiiev'd  of  old, 
That  no  success  attends  on  spears  and  swords 
Unblest,  and  that  the  battle  is  the  Lord's  ? 
That  courage  is  his  creature  ;  and  dismay 
The  post,  that  at  his  bidding  speeds  away, 
Ghastly  in  feature,  and  his  stamm'ring  tongue 
With  doleful  humour  and  sad  presage  hung, 
To  quell  the  valour  of  the  stoutest  heart, 
And  teach  the  combatant  a  woman's  part? 
That  he  bids  thousands  fly  w1"1*^  none  pursue, 
Saves  as  he  will  by  many  or  b    few, 
And  claims  for  ever,  as  his  royal  right, 
Th'event  and  sure  decision  of  the  tight  ? 
Hast  thou,  though  suckled  at  fair  Freedom's  breast, 
Exported  slav'ry  to  the  conquer' d  East  ? 
Puli'd  down  the  tyrants  India  serv'd  with  dread, 
And  rais'd  thyself,  a  greater,  in  their  stead  ? 
Gone  thither  arm'd  and  hungry,  return'd  ft'll, 
Fed  from  the  richest  veins  of  the  mogul, 
A  despot  big  with  pow'r  obtain'd  by  wealth, 
And  that  obtain'd  hy  rapine  and  by  stealth? 
With  Asiatic  vices  stor'd  thy  mind, 
But  left  their  virtues  and  thine  own  behind? 
And,  having  truck' d  Hiy  soul,  brought  home  the  fee, 
To  tempt  the  poor  to  sell"  himself  to  thee  ? 


EXPOSTULATION.  51 

Hast  thou  by  statue  shov'd  from  its  design 
The  Saviour's  feast,  his  own  blest  hread  and  wine, 
And  made  the  symbols  of  atoning  grace 
An  olh'ce-key,  a  picklock  to  a  place, 
That  infidels  may  prove  their  title  good 
By  an  oath  dipp'd  in  sacramental  blcod  ? 
A  blot  that  will  be  still  a  blot,  in  spite 
Of  all  that  grave  apologists  may  write  ; 
And  though  a  bishop  toil  to  cleanse  the  stain, 
He  wipes  and  scours  the  silver  cup  in  vain. 
And  hast  thou  sworn  on  ev'ry  slight  pretence, 
Till  perjuries  are  common  as  bad  pence, 
While  thousands,  careless  of  the  damning  sin, 
Kiss  the  bock's  outside,  who  ne'er  looked  within  ? 

Hast  thou,  when  Heav'n  has  cloth'd  thee  with  disgrace, 
And,  long  provok'd,  repaid  thee  to  thy  face, 
(For  thou  h  <st  known  eclipses,  and  endur'd 
Dimness  and  anguish,  all  thy  beams  obscur'd, 
When  sin  has  shed  dishonour  on  thy  brow  ; 
And  never  of  a  sabler  hue  than  now,) 
Hast  thou,  with  heart  p  rverse  and  conscience  sear'd, 
Despising  all  rebuke,  still  persever'd, 
Aril  having  chosen  evil   scorn'd  the  voice 
That  cried,  Repent ! — and  gloried  in  thy  choice  ? 
Thy  fastings,  when  calamity  at  last 
Suggests  th' expedient  of  a  yearly  fast, 
What  mean  they  ?  Canst  thou  dream  there  is  a  pow'r 
In  lighter  diet  at  a  later  hour, 
To  charm  to  sleep  the  threat'ning  of  the  skies, 
And  hide  past  folly  from  all-seeing  eyes  ? 
The  fast,  that  wins  deliverance,  and  suspends 
The  stroke,  that  a  vindictive  God  intends, 
Is  to  renounce  hypocrisy  ;  to  draw 
Thy  life  upon  the  pattern  of  the  law  ; 
To  war  with  pleasure,  idoliz'd  before; 
To  vanquish  lu>t,  and  wear  its  yoke  no  more. 
All  fasting  else,  whate'er  be  the  pretence, 
Is  woi )ing  mercy  by  renew'd  offence. 

Hast  thou  within  the  sin,  that  in  old  time 
Brought  fire  from  Heav'n,  the  sex-abusing  crime, 
Whose  horrid  perpetration  stamps  disgrace, 
Baboons  are  free  from,  upon  human  race  ? 
Think  on  the  fruitful  and  well-w;.ter'd  spot, 
That  fed  the  flocks  and  herds  of  wealthy  Lot, 
Where  Paradise  seem'd  still  vouchsaf  d  on  earth, 
Burning  and  scotch'd  into  perpetual  dearth, 
Or,  in  Ins  words  who  damn'd  the  base  desire, 
SutTring  the  vengeance  of  eternal  fire: 
Then  Nature  injur'd,  scandaliz'd,  defil'd, 


52  EXPOSTULATION. 

UnveiPd  her  blushing  cheek,  look'd  on,  and  smil'dl 

Beheld  with  joy  the  lovely  scene  defac'd, 

And  prais'd  the  wrath  that  laid  her  beauties  waste. 

Far  be  the  thought  from  any  verse  of  mine, 
And  farther  still  the  form'd  and  fix'd  design, 
To  thrust  the  charge  of  deeds  that  I  detest, 
Against  an  innocent,  unconscious  breast: 
The  man  that  dares  traduce,  because  he  can 
With  safety  to  himself,  is  not  a  man : 
An  individual  is  a  sacred  mark, 
Not  to  be  pierc'd  in  play,  or  in  the  dark ; 
But  public  censure  speaks  a  public  foe, 
Unless  a  zeal  for  virtue  guide  the  blow. 

The  priestly  brotherhood,  devout,  sincere, 
From  mean  self  int'rest  and  ambition  clear, 
Their  hope  in  heav'n,  servility  their  scorn, 
Prompt  to  persuade,  expostulate,  and  warn, 
Their  wisdom  pure,  and  giv'n  them  from  above, 
Their  usefulness  ensur'd  by  zeal  and  love, 
As  meek  as  the  man  Moses,  and  withal 
As  bold  as  in  Agrippa's  presence  Paul, 
Should  fly  the  world's  contaminating  touch, 
Holy  and  unpolluted  : — are  thine  such  ? 
Except  a  few  with  Eli's  spiiit  blest, 
Hophni  and  Phineas  may  describe  the  rest. 

Where  shall  a  teacher  look,  in  days  like  these, 
For  ears  and  hearts,  that  he  can  hope  to  please  ? 
Look  to  the  poor — the  simple  and  the  plain 
Will  hear  perhaps  thy  salutary  strain: 
Humility  is  gentle,  apt  to  learn, 
Speak  but  the  word,  will  listen  and  return. 
Alas,  not  so!  the  poorest  of  the  flock 
Are  proud,  and  set  their  faces  as  a  rock  ; 
Demed  that  earthly  opulence  they  choose, 
God's  better  gift  they  scoff  at  and  refuse. 
The  rich,  the  produce  of  a  nobler  stem, 
Are  more  intelligent  at  least — try  them. 
Oh  vain  inquiry  !  they  without  remorse 
Are  altogether  gone  a  devious  course ; 
When  beck'ning  Pleasure  leads  them,  wildly  stray; 
Have  burst  the  bands,  and  cast  the  yoke  away. 

Now  borne  upon  the  wings  of  truth  sublime, 
Review  thy  dim  original  and  prime. 
Tin's  island,  spot  of  unreclaim'd  rude  earth, 
The  cradle  that  receiv'd  thee  at  thy  birth. 
Was  rock'd  by  many  a  rough  Norwegian  blast, 
And  Danish  bowlings  scar'd  thee  as  they  pass'd; 
For  thou  wast  born  amid  the  din  of  arms, 
And  suck'd  a  breast  that  panted  with  alarm*. 


TULATION.  63 

While  yet  thou  wast  a  grov'ling  puling  chit, 
Thy  boiu-s  not  fashion'd,  and  thy  joints  not  knit, 
1'he  Roman  taught  thy  stubborn  knee  to  bow, 
Though  twice  a  Csesar  could  not  bend  thee  now. 
His  victory  was  that  of  orient  light, 
\Vhen  the  sun's  shafts  disperse  the  gloom  of  night. 
Thy  language  at  this  distant  moment  shows 
How  much  the  country  to  the  conqu'ror  owes  ; 
Expressive,  energetic,  and  refin'd, 
It  sparkles  with  the  gems  he  left  behind: 
He  brought  thy  land  a  blessing  when  he  came, 
He  found  thee  savage,  and  he  left  thee  tame ; 
Taught  thee  to  clothe  thy  pink'd  and  painted  hide, 
And  grace  thy  figure  with  a  soldier's  pride  ; 
He  sovv'd  the  seeds  of  order  where  he  went, 
Improv'd  thee  far  beyond  his  own  intent, 
And,  while  he  rul'd  thee  by  the  sword  alone, 
Made  thee  at  last  a  warrior  like  his  own. 
Religion,  if  in  heav'nly  truths  attir'd, 
Needs  only  to  be  seen  to  be  admir'd  ; 
But  thine,  as  dark  as  witch'ries  of  the  night,  ^ 
Was  form'd  to  harden  hearts  and  shock  the  sight; 
Thy  Druids  struck  the  well-hung  harps  they  bore 
With  fingers  deeply  dyed  in  human  gore  ; 
And  while  the  victim  slowly  bled  to  death, 
Upon  the  rolling  chords  rung  out  his  dying  breath. 
Who  brought  the  lamp,  that  with  awaking  beams 
Dispc-11'd  thy  gloom,  and  broke  away  thy  dreams, 
Tradition,  now  decrepit  and  worn  out, 
Babbler  of  ancient  fables,  leaves  a  doubt : 
But  still  light  reach'd  ihee  ;  and  those  gods  of  thine, 
Woden  and  Thor,  each  tott'ring  in  his  shrine, 
Fell  broken  and  defac'd  at  his  own  door, 
As  Dagon  in  Philistia  long  before. 
But  Rome,  with  sorceries  and  magic  wand, 
Soon  rais'd  a  cloud  that  darken' d  ev'ry  land  ; 
And  thine  was  smother'd  in  the  stench  and  fog 
Of  Tiber's  marshes  and  the  papal  hog. 
Then  priests,  with  bulls  and  briefs,  and  shaven  crowns. 
And  griping  fists,  and  unrelenting  frowns, 
Legates  and  delegates  with  povv'rs  from  hell, 
Though  heav'nly  in  pretension,  fleecYl  thee  well; 
And  to  this  hour,  to  keep  it  fresh  in  mind, 
Some  twigs  of  that  old  scourge  are  left  behind.* 
Thy  soldiery,  the  Pope's  well-manag'd  pack, 
Were  t-rain'd  beneath  his  lash,  and  knew  the  smack; 
Aud,  when  he  laid  them  on  the  scent  of  blood, 

•  Which  may  be  found  at  Doctors'  Commons. 
F  2 


54  EXPOSTULATION. 

Would  hunt  a  Saracen  through  fire  and  flood. 

Lavish  of  life,  to  win  an  empty  tomb, 

That  prov'd  a  mint  of  wealth,  a  mine  to  Rome, 

They  left  their  bones  beneath  unfriendly  skies, 

His  worthless  absolution  ail  the  prize. 

Thou  wast  the  veriest  slave  in  days  of  yore, 

That  ever  dragg'd  a  chain  or  tugg'd  an  oar ; 

Thy  monarchs,  arbitrary,  fierce,  uniust, 

Themselves  the  slaves  of  bigotry  or  lust, 

Disdain'd  thy  counsels,  only  in  distress 

Found  thee  a  goodly  sponge  for  Pow'r  to  press. 

Thy  chiefs,  the  lords  of  many  a  petty  fee, 

Provok'd  and  harass'd,  in  return  plagu'd  thee ; 

Call'd  thee  away  from  peaceable  employ, 

Domestic  happiness  and  rural  joy, 

To  waste  thy  life  in  arms,  or  lay  it  down 

In  causeless  feuds  and  bick'rings  of  their  own. 

Thy  parliaments  ador'd  on  bended  knees 

The  sov'reignty  they  were  conven'd  to  please; 

Whate'er  was  ask'd,  too  timid  to  resist, 

Complied  with,  and  were  graciously  dismiss'd; 

And  if  some  Spartan  soul  a  doubt  express' d, 

And,  blushing  at  the  lameness  of  the  rest, 

Dar'd  to  suppose  the  subject  had  a  choice, 

He  was  a  traitor  by  the  gen'ral  voice. 

Oh  slave  !  with  pow'rs  thou  didst  not  dare  exert, 

Verse  cannot  stoop  so  low  as  thy  desert ; 

It  shakes  ihe  sides  of  splenetic  Disdain, 

Thou  self-entitled  ruler  of  the  main, 

To  trace  thee  tc  the  date  when  yon  fair  sea, 

That  clips  thy  shores,  had  no  such  charms  for  thee ; 

When  olher  nations  flew  from  coast  to  coast, 

And  thou  hadst  neither  fleet  nor  flag  to  boast. 

Kneel  now,  and  lay  thy  forehead  in  the  dust; 

Blush,  if  thou  canst ;  not  petrified,  thou  must: 

Act  but  an  honest  and  a  faithful  part; 

Compare  what  then  ihou  wast  with  what  thou  Art; 

And  God's  disposing  providence  confess'd, 

Obduracy  itself  must  yield  the  rest. — 

Then  thou  art  bound  to  serve  him,  and  to  prove, 

Hum  after  hour,  thy  gratilude  and  love. 

Has  he  not  hid  thee,  and  thy  favour'd  land, 
For  ages  safe  beneath  his  shelt'ring  hand, 
Giv'n  thee  his  blessing  on  the  clearest  proof, 
Bid  nations  leagu'd  against  thee  stand  aloof, 
And  charg'd  Hostility  and  Hate  to  roar 
Where  else  they  would,  but  not  upon  thy  shore? 
His  pow'r  secur'd  thee,  when  presumptuous  Spain 
Baptiz'd  her  fleet  invincible  in  vain; 


EXPOSTULATION.  55 

Her  gloomy  monarch,  doubtful  an<l  resign'd 
To  ev'ry  pang  that  racks  an  anxious  mind, 
Ask'd  of  the  waves,  that  broke  upon  his  co^s', 
What  tidings?   and  the  surge  replied — Al!  lost  ! 
And  when  the  Stuart  leaning  on  the  Scot, 
Then  too  much  fear'd,  and  now  too  much  forgo  . 
Pierc'd  to  the  very  centre  of  the  realm. 
And  hoj)'d  to  seize  his  abdicated  helm, 
'Twas  but  to  prove  how  quickly  with  a  fr  wn 
He  that  had  r.iis'd  thee  could  have  pluck'd  tht'e  c!  --.vn 
Peculiar  is  the  grace  by  thee  possess'd, 
Thy  foes  implacable,  thy  land  at  rest .-  * 

Thy  thunders  travel  over  earth  and  seas, 
And  all  at  home  is  pleasure,  wealth,  and  ease. 
'Tis  thus,  extending  his  tempestuous  arm, 
Thy  Maker  fills  the  nations  with  alar;!', 
While  his  own  Heav'n  surveys  the  troubled  scene, 
And  feels  no  change,  unshaken  and  serene. 
Freedom,  in  other  lands  scarce  known  to  shine, 
Pours  out  a  flood  of  splendour  upon  thine  ; 
Thou  hast  as  bright  an  int'rest  in  her  rays 
As  ever  Roman  had  in  Rome's  best  days. 
True  freedom  is  where  no  restraint  is  known, 
That  Scripture,  justice,  and  good  sense  disown, 
Where  only  vice  and  injury  are  tied, 
And  all  from  shore  to  shore  is  free  beside. 
Such  freedom  is — and  Windsor's  hoary  tow'rs 
Stood  trembling  at  the  boldness  of  thy  pow'rs, 
That  won  a  nymph  on  that  immortal  plain 
Like  her  the  fabled  Phoebus  woo'd  in  vain  : 
He  found  the  laurel  only — happier  you 
Th 'unfading  laurel,  and  the  virgin  too  !  * 

Now  think,  if  Pleasure  have  a  thought  to  spare; 
If  Got!  himself  be  not  beneath  her  care  : 
If  Business,  constant  as  the  wheels  of  time, 
Can  pause  an  hour  to  read  a  serious  rhyme  ; 
If  the  new  mail  thy  merchants  now  receive, 
Or  expectation  of  the  next,  give  leave  ; 
Oh  think!   if  chargeable  with  deep  arrears 
For  such  indulgence  gilding  all  thy  years, 
How  much,  though  long  neglected,  shining  yet, 
The  beams  of  heav'nly  truth  have  swell'd  the  debt. 
When  persecuting  zeal  made  royal  sport 
With  tortur'd  innocence  in  Mary's  court, 
And  Bonner,  blithe  as  shepherd  at  a  wake, 
Enjoy'd  the  show,  and  danc'd  about  the  stake; 

*  Alluding  to  the  {?rant  of  Magna  Charta,  which  was  extorted    from 
John  by  the  barons  at  Runnymede  near  Windsor. 


66  EXPOSTULATION. 

The  sacrerl  Book,  its  value  understood, 

Recei/'d  the  seal  of  martyrdom  in  blood. 

Those  holy  men,  so  full  of  truth  and  grace, 

Seem  to  reflection  of  a  diffrent  race  ; 

Meek,  modest,  venerable,  wise,  sincere, 

In  such  a  cause  they  could  not  dare  to  fear ; 

They  could  not  purchase  earth  with  such  a  prize, 

Or  spare  a  life  too  short  to  reach  the  skies. 

From  them  to  thee  convey'd  along  the  tide, 

Their  streaming  hearts  pour'd  freely  when  they  died; 

Those  truths,  which  neither  use  nor  years  knpair, 

Invite  thee,  woo  thee,  to  the  bliss  they  share. 

What  dotage  will  not  vanity  maintain? 

What  web  too  weak  to  catch  a  modern  brain? 

The  moles  and  bats  in  full  assembly  find, 

On  special  search,  the  keen-ey'd  eagle  blind. 

And  did  they  dream,  and  art  thou  wiser  now  ? 

Prove  it — if  better,  I  submit  and  bow. 

Wisdom  and  goodness  are  twin-born,  one  heart 

Must  hold  both  sisters,  never  seen  apart. 

So  then — as  darkness  overspread  the  deep, 

Ere  Nature  rose  from  her  eternal  sleep, 

And  this  delightful  earth,  and  that  fair  sky, 

Leap'd  out  of  nothing,  cafl'd  by  the  Most  High  ; 

By  such  a  change  thy  darkness  is  made  light, 

Thy  chaos  order,  and  thy  weakness  might ; 

And  He,  whose  pow'r  mere  nullity  obeys, 

Who  found  thee  nothing,  form'd  thee  for  his  praise 

To  praise  him  is  to  serve  him,  and  fulfil, 

Doing  and  suff  ring,  his  unquestion'd  will ; 

'Tis  to  believe  what  men  inspir'd  of  old, 

Faithful,  and  faithfully  inform'd,  unfold; 

Candid  and  just,  with  no  false  aim  in  view, 

To  take  for  truth  what  cannot  but  be  true; 

To  learn  in  God's  own  school  the  Christian  part, 

And  bind  the  task  assign'd  thee  to  thine  heart: 

Happy  the  man  there  seeking  and  there  found, 

Happy  the  nation  where  such  men  abound. 

How  shall  a  verse  impress  thee?   by  what  name 
Shall  I  adjure  thee  not  to  court  thy  shame  ? 
By  theirs,  whose  bright  example  unimpeach'd 
Directs  thee  to  that  eminence  they  reach'd, 
Heroes  and  worthies  of  days  past,  thy  sires? 
Or  his,  who  touch'd  their  hearts  with  hallow'd  fires? 
Their  names,  alas !   in  vain  reproach  an  a«e, 
\Yhom  all  the  vanities  tliey  scorn'd  engage ! 
And  His.  that  seraphs  tremble  a-t,  is  hung 
Disgracefully  on  ev'ry  tiihY/r's  tongue, 
Or  serves  the  champion  in  forensic  war 


EXPOSTULATION.  57 

To  flourish  and  parade  with  at  the  bar. 
Pleasure  herself  perhaps  suggests  a  plea, 
If  int'reit  move  thee,  to  persuade  e'en  thee  ; 
By  ev'ry  charm  that  smiles  upon  her  face, 
By  joys  possess'd,  and  joys  still  held  in  chase, 
If  dear  society  be  wortli  a  thought, 
And  if  the  feast  of  freedom  cloy  thee  not, 
Reflect  that  these,  arid  all  that  seems  thine  own, 
Held  by  the  tenure  of  his  will  alone, 
Like  angels  in  the  service  of  their  Lord, 
Remain  with  thee,  or  leave  thee  at  his  word  ; 
That  gratitude  and  temp'rance  in  our  use 
Of  what  he  gives,  unsparing  and  profuse, 
Secure  the  favour,  and  enhance  the  joy, 
That  thankless  waste  and  wild  abuse  destroy. 
But  above  all  reflect,  how  cheap  soe'er 
Those  rights,  that  millions  envy  thee,  appear, 
Ami,  though  resolv'd  to  risk  them,  and  swim  down 
The  tide  of  pleasure,  heedless  of  His  frown, 
That  blessings  truly  sacred,  and  when  giv'n 
Mark'd  with  the  signature  and  stamp  of  Heav'n, 
The  word  of  prophecy,  those  truths  divine, 
Which  make  that  Heav'n,  if  thou  desire  it,  thine, 
(Awful  alternative  !  believ'd,  belov'd, 
Thy  glory,  and  thy  shame  if  unimprov'd,) 
Are  never  long  vouchsaf'd,  if  push'd  aside 
With  cold  disgust  or  philosophic  pride  ! 
And  that,  judicially  withdrawn,  disgrace, 
Error,  and  darkness  occupy  their  place. 

A  world  is  up  in  arms,  and  thou,  a  spot 
Not  quickly  found,  if  negligently  sought, 
Thy  soul  as  ample  as  thy  bounds  are  small, 
Endur'st  the  brunt,  and  dar'st  defy  them  all : 
And  wilt  thou  join  to  this  bold  enterprise 
A  bolder  still,  a  contest  with  the  skies  ? 
Rem  mber,  if  He  guard  thee  and  secure, 
Whoe'er  assails  thee,  thy  success  is  sure  ; 
But  if  He  leave  thee,  though  the  skill  and  pow'r 
Of  nations  sworn  to  spoil  thee  ana  devour, 
W'ere  all  collected  in  thy  single  arm, 
And  thou  couldst  laugh  away  the  fear  of  harm, 
Thai  strength  would  fail,  oppos'd  against  the  push 
And  feeble  onset  of  a  pigmy  rush. 

Say  not  (and  if  the  thought  of  such  defence 
Should  spring  within  thy  bosom,  drive  it  thence) 
What  nation  amongst  all  my  foes  is  free 
From  crimes  as  base  as  any  cliarg'don  me? 
Their  measure  fill 'd,  they  too  shall  pay  the  debt, 
Which  God,  though  long  to.  born,  will  not  forget. 


58  EXPOSTULATION. 

But  know  that  Wrath  divine,  when  roost  severe, 
Makes  justice  still  the  guide  of  his  career, 
And  will  not  punish,  in  one  mingled  crowd, 
Them  without  light,  and  thee  without  a  cloud. 
Muse,  hang  this  harp  upon  yon  aged  beech, 
Stiil  murm'ring with  the  solemn  truths  I  teach; 
And  while  at  intervals  a  cold  blast  sings 
Through  the  dry  leaves,  and  pants  upon  the  strings; 
My  soul  shall  sigh  in  secret,  and  lament 
A  nation  scourg'd,  yet  tardy  to  repent. 
I  know  the  warning  song  is  sung  in  vain  ; 
That  few  will  hear,  and  fewer  heed  the  strain ; 
But  if  a  sweeter  voice,  and  one  design'd 
A  blessing  to  my  country  and  mankind, 
Reclaim  the  wand'ring  thousands,  and  bring  home 
A  Hock  so  scatter'd  and  so  wont  to  roam, 
Then  place  it  once  again  between  my  knees; 
The  sound  of  truth  will  then  be  sure  to  please  : 
And  truth  alone,  where'er  my  life  be  cast, 
In  scenes  of  plenty,  or  the  pining  waste, 
Shall  be  my  chosen  theme,  my  glory  to  the  hurt 


norE. 


doceas  iter,  et  sacra  otia  pandas. 

Virg.  En. 


Ask  what  is  human  life — the  sage  replies, 
With  disappointment  low'ring  in  his  eyes, 
A  painful  passage  o'er  a  restless  Hood, 
A  vain  pursuit  of  fugitive  false  good, 
A  scene  of  fancied  bliss  and  heart- felt  care, 
Closing  at  last  in  darkness  and  despair, 
The  poor,  inur'd  to  drudg'ry  and  distress, 
Act  without  aim,  think  little,  and  feel  less, 
And  no  where,  but  in  feign'd  Arcadian  scenes, 
Taste  happiness,  or  know  what  pleasure  means. 
Riches  are  pass'd  away  from  hand  to  hand, 
As  fortune,  vice,  or  folly  may  command ; 
As  in  a  dance  the  pair  that  take  the  lead 
Turn  downward,  and  the  lowest  pair  succeed, 
So  shifting  and  so  various  is  the  plan, 
By  which  lieav'u  rules  the  mix'd  affairs  of  man ; 
Vicissitude  wheels  round  the  motley  crowd, 
The  rich  grow  poor,  the  poor  become  purse-proud; 
Bus'ness  is  labour,  and  man's  weakness  such, 
Pleasure  is  labour  too,  and  tires  as  much, 
The  very  sense  of  it  forgets  its  use, 
By  repetition  pall'd,  by  age  obtuse. 
Youth  lost  in  dissipation  we  deplore, 
Through  life's  sad  remnant,  what  no  sighs  restore  ; 
Our  years,  a  fruitless  race  without  a  prize, 
Too  many,  yet  too  few  to  make  us  wise. 

Dangling  his  cane  about,  and  taking  snuff, 
Lothario  cries,  What  philosophic  stuff — 
O  querulous  and  weak! — whose  useless  brain 
Once  thought  of  nothing,  and  now  thinks  in  vain; 
Whose  eye  reverted  weeps  o'er  all  the  past, 
Whose  prospects  shows  thee  a  disheart'ning  waste | 
Would  age  in  thee  resign  his  wintry  reign, 
And  youth  invigorate  that  frame  again, 


60  HOPE. 

Renew'd  desire  would  gmce  with  other  speech 
Joys  al  vays  priz'd,  when  plac'd  witbin  our  reach. 

For  lift  thy  p  ilsied  head,  shake  off  the  gloom 
That  overhangs  the  borders  of  thy  tomb, 
See  Nature  gay,  as  when  she  first  began 
With  smiles  alluring  her  admirer  man  ; 
She  spreads  the  morning  over  eastern  hills, 
Earth  glitters  with  the  drops  the  night  distils; 
The  Sun  obedient  at  her  call  appears, 
To  fling  his  glories  o'er  the  robe  she  wears; 
Banks   cloth' d    with  flow'rs,  groves  filFd  with  sprightly 

sounds, 

Thy  yellow  tilth,  green  meads,  rocks,  rising  grounds, 
Streams  edg'd  with  osiers,  fatt'ning  ev'ry  field, 
Where'er  they  flow,  now  seen  and  now  conceal'd  ; 
From  the  blue  rim,  where  skies  and  mountains  meet, 
Down  to  the  very  turf  beneath  thy  feet, 
Ten  thousand  charms,  that  only  fools  despise, 
Or  Pride  can  look  at  with  indifTrent  eyes, 
All  speak  one  language,  all  with  one  sweet  voice 
Cry  to  her  universal  realm,  Rejoice  ! 
Man  feels  the  spur  of  passions  and  desires. 
And  she  gives  largely  more  than  he  requires; 
Not  that  his  hours  devoted  all  to  Care, 
Hollow-ey'd  Abstinence,  and  lean  Despair, 
The  wretch  may  pine,  while  to  his  smell,  taste,  sight, 
She  holds  a  paradise  of  rich  delight  ; 
But  gently  to  rebuke  his  awkward  fear, 
To  prove  that  what  she  gives,  she  gives  sincere ; 
To  banish  hesitation,  and  proclaim 
His  happiness,  her  dear,  her  only  aim. 
'Tis  grave  philosophy's  absurdest  dream, 
That  Heav'n's  intentions  are  not  what  they  seem. 
That  only  shadows  are  dispens'd  below, 
And  Earth  has  no  reality  but  woe. 

Thus,  things  terrestial  wear  a  difFrent  hue, 
As  youth   or  age  persuades;  and  neither  true. 
So  Flora's  wreath  through  colour'd  crystal  seen, 
The  rose  or  lily  appears  blue  or  green, 
But  still  th' imputed  tints  are  those  alone 
The  medium  represents,  and  not  their  own. 

To  rise  at  noon,  sit  slipshod  and  undress'd, 
To  read  the  news,  or  riddle,  as  seems  best, 
Till  half  the  world  comes  rattling  at  his  door, 
To  fill  the  dull  vacuity  till  four ; 
And,  just  when  ev'ning  turns  the  blue  vault  grey 
To  spend  two  hours  in  dressing  for  the  day; 
To  make  the  sun  a  bauble  without  use, 
Save  for  the  fruits  his  heav'nly  beams  produce? 


HOPE.  61 

Quite  to  forget,  or  deem  it  worth  no  thought, 

Who  bids  him  shine,  or  if  he  shine  or  not; 

Through  mere  necessity  to  close  his  eyes 

Just  when  the  larks  and  when  the  shepherds  rise; 

Is  such  a  life,  so  tediously  the  same, 

So  void  of  all  utility  or  aim, 

That  poor  Jonquil  witli  almost  ev'ry  breatl* 

Sighs  for  his  exit,  vulgarly  call'd  death  : 

For  he,  with  all  his  follies,  has  a  mind 

Not  yet  so  blank,  or  fashionably  blind, 

But  now  and  then  perhaps  a  feeble  ray 

Of  distant  wisdom  shoots  across  his  way, 

By  which  he  reads,  that  life  without  a  plan, 

As  useless  as  the  moment  it  began, 

Serves  merely  as  a  soil  for  discontent 

To  thrive  in  ;  an  encumbrance  ere  half  spent. 

Oh  weariness  beyond  what  asses  feel, 

That  tread  the  circuit  of  the  cistern  wheel; 

A  dull  rotation,  never  at  a  stay, 

Yesterday's  face  twin -image  of  to-day  ; 

While  conversation,  an  exhausted  stock, 

Grows  drowsy  as  the  clicking  of  a  clock. 

No  need,  he  cries,  of  gravity  stufPd  out 

With  academic  dignity  devout, 

To  read  wise  lectures,  vanity  the  text : 

Proclaim  the  remedy,  ye  learned,  next; 

For  truth  self-evident,  with  pomp  impress'd, 

Is  vanity  surpassing  all  the  rest. 

That  remedy,  not  hid  in  deeps  profound, 
Yet  seldom  sought  where  only  to  be  found, 
While  passion  turns  aside  from  its  due  scope 
Th'inquirer's  aim,  that  remedy  is  hope. 
Life  is  His  gift,  from  whom  whate'er  life  needs, 
With  ev'ry  good  and  peifect  gift,  proceeds; 
Bestow'd  on  man,  like  all  that  we  partake, 
Royally,  freely,  for  his  bounty's  sake; 
Transient  indeed,  as  is  the  fleeting  hour, 
And  yet  the  seed  of  an  immortal  flow'r; 
Design'd  in  honour  of  his  endless  love, 
To  h'll  with  fragrance  his  abode  above  ; 
No  trifle,  howsoever  short  it  seem, 
And,  howsoever  shadowy,  no  dream  ; 
Its  value,  what  no  thought  can  ascertain 
Nor  all  an  angel's  eloquence  explain  ; 
Men  deal  with  life  as  children  with  their  play, 
W7ho  first  misuse,  then  cast  their  toys  away; 
Live  to  no  sober  purpose,  and  contend 
That  their  Creator  had  no  serious  end. 
When  God  and  man  stand  opposite  in  view, 

G 


€2  HOPE. 

Man's  disappointment  must  of  course  ensue 

The  just  Creator  condescends  to  write, 

In  beams  of  inextinguishable  light, 

His  names  of  wisdom,  goodness,  pow'r,  and  love, 

On  all  that  blooms  below,  or  shines  above; 

To  catch  the  wandering  notice  of  mankind, 

And  teach  the  world,  if  not  perversely  blind, 

His  gracious  attributes,  and  prove  the  share 

His  offspring  hold  in  his  paternal  care. 

If,  led  from  earthly  things  to  things  divine, 

His  creature  thwart  not  his  august  design, 

Then  praise  is  heard  instead  of  reas'ning  pride, 

And  captious  cavil  and  complaint  subside. 

Nature,  employ 'd  in  her  allotted  place, 

Is  hand-maid  to  the  purposes  of  Grace  ; 

By  good  vouchsafed  makes  known  superior  good 

And  bliss  not  seen  by  blessings  understood  : 

That  bliss,  reveal'd  in  Scripture,  with  a  glow 

Bright  as  the  covenant-ensuring  bow, 

Hires  all  his  feelings  with  a  noble  scorn  _ 

Of  sensual  evil,  and  thus  Hope  is  born. 

Hope  sets  the  stamp  of  vanity  on  all 
That  men  have  deem'd  substantial  since  the  fall, 
Yet  has  the  wondrous  virtue  to  educe 
From  emptiness  itself  a  real  use  ; 
And  while  she  takes,  as  at  a  father's  hand, 
What  health  and  sober  appetite  demand, 
From  fading  good  derives,  with  chemic  art, 
That  lasting  happiness,  a  thankful  heart. 
Hope,  with  uplifted  foot,  set  free  from  earth, 
Pants  for  the  place  of  her  ethereal  birth, 
On  steady  wings  sails  through  th'imtnense  abyss, 
Plucks  amaranthine  joys  from  bow'rs  of  bliss, 
And  crowns  the  soul,  while  yet  a  mourner  here, 
With  wreaths  like  those  triumphant  spirits  wear. 
Hope,  as  an  anchor  firm  and  sure,  holds  fast 
The  Christian  vessel   and  defies  the  blast. 
Hope !  nothing  else  can  nourish  and  secure 
His  new  born  virtues,  and  preserve  him  pure 
H  >pe  !   let  the  wretch,  once  conscious  of  the  joyf 
Whom  now  despairing  agonies  destroy, 
Speak,  for  he  can,  and  none  so  well  as  he, 
What  treasures  centre,  what  delights  in  thee. 
Had  he  the  gems,  the  spices,  and  the  land 
Th.it  boasts  the  treasure,  all  at  his  command; 
Tli,j  fragrant  grove,  th'inestimab'e  mine, 
Were  light,  when  weigh'd  against  one  smile  of  thine. 

Though  clasp'd  and  cradled  in  his  nurse's  arms, 
He  shines  with  all  a  cherub's  oiiless  charms, 


HOPE.  (3 

Man  is  the  genuine  oTspring  of  revolt, 

Stubborn  and  sturdy,  a  wild  ass's  colt; 

His  passions,  like  the  wat'ry  stores  that  sleep 

Beneath  the  smiling  surface  of  the  deep, 

Wait  but  the  lashes  of  a  wint'ty  storm, 

To  frown  and  roar,  and  shake  his  feeble  form. 

From  infancy  through  childhood's  giddy  maze, 

Froward  at  school,  and  fretful  in  his  plays, 

The  puny  tyrant  burns  to  subjugate 

The  free  republic  of  the  whip -gig  state. 

If  one,  his  equal  in  athletic  frame, 

Or,  more  provoking  still,  of  nobler  name, 

Dare  step  across  his  arbitrary  views, 

An  Iliad,  only  not  in  verse,  ensues : 

The  little  Greeks  look  tremhling  at  the  scales, 

Till  the  best  tongue,  or  heaviest  hand,  prevails. 

Now  see  him  launcli'd  into  the  world  at  large-, 
If  priest,  supinely  droning  o'er  his  charge, 
Their  fleece  his  pillow,  and  his  weekly  drawl, 
Though  short,  too  long,  the  price  he  pays  for  all. 
If  lawyer,  loud,  whatever  cause  he  plead, 
But  proudest  of  the  worst,  if  that  succeed. 
Perhaps  a  grave  physician,  gath'ring  fees, 
Punctually  paid  for  length' ning  out  disease  ; 
No  COTTON,  whose  humanity  sheds  ra'ys, 
That  make  superior  skill  his  second  praise. 
If  arms  engage  him,  he  devotes  to  sport 
His  date  of  life,  so  likely  to  be  short ; 
A  soldier  may  be  anything,  if  brave, 
So  may  a  tradesman,  if  not  quite  a  knave. 
Such  stuff  the  world  is  made  of;  and  mankind 
To  passion,  int'rest,  pleasure,  whim  resign'd, 
Insist  on  as  if  each  were  his  own  pope, 
Forgiveness,  and  the  privilege  of  hope. 
But  Conscience,  in  some  awful  silent  hour, 
When  captivating  lusts  have  lost  their  pow'r, 
Perhaps  when  sickness,  or  some  fearful  dream, 
Reminds  him  of  religion,  hated  theme! 
Starts  from  the  down,  on  .vhich  she  lately  slept, 
And  tells  of  laws  despis'd,  at  least  not  kept: 
Shows  with  a  pointing  finger,  but  no  noise, 
A  pale  procession  of  past,  sinful  joys, 
All  witnesses  of  blessings  foully  scorn'd, 
And  life  abus'd,  and  not  to  be  suborn'd. 
Mark  these,  she  says  ;   these  summon 'd  from  afar, 
Begin  their  march  to  meet  thee  at  the  bar ; 
There  find  a  Judge  inexorably  just, 
And  perish  there,  as  all  presumption  must. 

Peace  be  to  those  (such  peace  as  Earth  can 


64  HOPE. 

Who  live  in  pleasure,  dead  e'en  while  they  live  ; 

Born  capable  indeed  of  heav'nly  truth ; 

But  clown  to  latest  age,  from  earliest  youth, 

Their  mind  a  wilderness  th  ough  want  of  care, 

The  plough  of  wisdom  never  ent'ring  there. 

Peace  (if  insensibility  may  claim 

A  right  to  the  meek  honours  of  her  name) 

To  men  of  pedigree,  their  noble  race, 

Emulous  always  of  the  nearest  place 

To  any  throne,  except  the  throne  of  Grace. 

Let  cottagers  and  unenlighten'd  swains 

Revere  tiie  laws  they  dream  that  Heav'n  ordains; 

Resort  on  Sundays  to  the  house  of  pray'r, 

And  ask,  and  fancy  they  find,  blessings  there. 

Themselves,  perhaps,  when  weary  they  retreat 

T'enj  >y  cool  nature  in  a  country  seat, 

T' exchange  the  centre  of  a  thousand  trades, 

For  clumps,  and  lawns,  and  temples,  and  cascades, 

May  now  and  then  their  velvet  cushions  take, 

And  seem  to  pray  for  good  example's  sake  ; 

Judging,  in  charity  no  doubt,  the  town 

Pious  enough,  and  having  need  of  none. 

Kind  souls  J   to  teach  their  tenantry  to  prize 

What  they  themselves,  without  r.e.norse,  despise: 

Nor  hope  have  they,  nor  fear,  of  aught  to  come, 

As  well  for  them  had  prophecy  been  dumb ; 

They  could  have  held  the  conduct  they  pursue, 

Had  Paul  of  Tarsus  liv'd  and  died  a  Jew  ; 

And  truth,  propos'd  to  reas'ners  wise  as  they, 

Is  a  pearl  cast — completely  cast  away. 

They  die — Death  lends  them,  pleas'd,  and  as  in  sport, 
Al!  the  grim  honours  of  his  ghastly  court. 
Far  other  paintings  grace  me  chamber  now, 
Where  late  we  saw  the  mimic  landscape  glow: 
The  busy  heralds  hang  the  sable  scene 
With  mournful  'scutcheons,  and  dim  lamps  between; 
Proclaim  their  titles  tj  the  crowd  around, 
But  they  that  wore  them  move  not  at  the  sound; 
The  coronet,  ptac'd  idly  at  their  head, 
Adds  nothing  now  to  the  degraded  dead; 
And  e'en  the  star,  that  glitters  on  the  bier, 
Can  only  say — Nobility  lies  here. 
Peace  to  all  such — 'twere  pity  to  ofTend, 
By  useless  censure,  whom  we  cannot  mend ; 
Life  without  hope  can  clo-e  but  in  despair, 
'Twas  there  we  found  them,  and  must  leave  them  there. 

As,  when  two  pilgrims  in  a  forest  stray, 
Both  may  be  lost,  yet  each  in  his  own  way; 
So  fares  i    with  the  n;u  titmUs  beguil'd 


HOPE.  65 

In  vain  Opinion's  waste  and  dang'rous  wild  ; 
Ten  thousand  rove  the  brakes  and  thorns  among, 
Some  eastward,  and  some  westward,  and  all  wrong. 
But  here,  alas !  the  fatal  difference  lies, 
Each  man's  belief  is  right  in  his  own  eyes ; 
And  he  that  blames  what  they  have  blindly  chose 
Incurs  resentment  for  the  love  he  shows. 

Say  botanist,  within  whose  province  fall 
The  cedar  and  the  hyssop  on  the  wall, 
Of  all  that  deck  the  lanes,  the  fields,  the  bow'rs, 
What  parts  the  kindred  tribes  of  weeds  and  flow'rs? 
Sweet  scent,  or  lovely  form,  or  both  cornbin'd, 
Distinguish  ev'ry  cultivated  kind  ; 
The  want  of  both  denotes  a  meaner  breed, 
And  Chloe  from  her  garland  picks  the  weed. 
Thus  hopes  of  ev'ry  sort,  whatever  sect 
Esteem  them,  sow  them,  rear  them,  and  protect, 
If  wild  in  nature,  and  not  duly  found, 
Gethsemane  !   in  thy  dear  hallow'd  ground, 
That  cannot  bear  the  blaze  of  Scripture  light, 
Nor  cheer  the  spirit,  nor  refresh  the  sight, 
Nor  animate  the  soul  to  Christian  deeds, 
(Oh  cast  them  from  thee !)  are  weeds,  arrant  weeds. 

Ethelred's  house,  the  <  <  ntre  of  six  ways, 
Diverging  each  from  eacJ  ,  like  equal  rays, 
Himself  as  bountiful  as  April  rains, 
Lord  paramount  of  the  surrounding  plains, 
Would  give  relief  of  bed  and  board  to  none 
But  guests  that  sought  it  in  th'  appointed  One  ; 
And  they  might  enter  at  his  open  door, 
E'en  till  his  spacious  hall  would  hold  no  more. 
He  sent  a  servant  forth  by  ev'ry  road, 
To  sound  his  horn,  and  publish  it  abroad, 
That  all  might  mark — knight,  menial,  high,  and  low, 
An  ord'nance  it  concern'd  them  much  to  know. 
Jf,  after  all,  some  headstrong  hardy  lout 
Would  disobey,  though  sure  to  be  shut  out, 
Could  he  with  reason  murmer  at  his  case, 
Himself  sole  author  of  his  own  disgrace  ? 
No  !   the  decree  was  just  and  without  flaw  ; 
And  he,  that  made,  had  right  to  make,  the  law ; 
His  sov'reign  pow'r  and  pleasure  unrestrain'd, 
The  wrqjig  was  his  who  wrongfully  complain'd. 

Yet  half  mankind  maintain  a  churlish  strife 
With  Him,  the  Donor  of  eternal  life, 
Because  the  deed,  by  which  his  love  confirms 
The  largess  he  bestows,  prescribes  the  terms. 
Compliance  with  his  will  your  lot  ensures, 
Accept  it  only,  and  the  boon  is  youra. 

G  2 


66  HOPE. 

And  sure  it  is  as  kind  to  smile  and  give, 

As  with  a  frown  *o  sav,  Do  this,  and  live. 

Love  is  not  pedlar's  trump'ry  bought  and  sold : 

He  will  give  freely,  or  he  will  withhold; 

His  soul  abhors  a  mercenary  thought, 

A  ad  him  as  deeply  who  abhors  it  not ; 

He  stipulates  indeed,  but  merely  this, 

That  man  will  freely  take  an  unbonght  bliss, 

Will  trust  him  for  a  faithful  gen'rous  part, 

Nor  set  a  price  upon  a  willing  beart. 

Of  all  the  ways  that  seem  to  promise  fair, 

To  place  you  where  his  saints  his  presence  share. 

This  only  can;  for  this  plain  cause,  express'd 

In  terms  as  plain,  Himself  has  shut  the  rest. 

But  oh  the  strife,  the  bick'ring,  and  debate, 

The  tidings  of  unpurchas'd  Heav'n  create! 

The  flirted  fan,  the  bridle,  and  the  toss, 

All  speakers,  yet  all  language  at  a  loss. 

From  stucco'd  walls  smart  arguments  rebound; 

And  beaus,  adept  in  ev'ry  thing  profound, 

Die  of  disdain,  or  whistle  off  tne  sound. 

Such  is  the  clamour  of  rooks,  daws,  and  kites, 

Th'explosion  of  the  levell'd  tube  excites, 

Where  mould'ring  abbey-walls  o'erhang  the  glade., 

And  oaks  coeval  spread  a  mournful  shade  ; 

The  screaming  nations,  hov'ring  in  mid  air, 

Loudly  resent  the  strangers  freedom  there, 

And  seem  to  warn  him  never  to  repeat 

His  bold  intrusion  on  their  dark  retreat. 

Adieu,  Vinosa  cries,  ere  yet  he  sips 
The  purple  bumper  trembling  at  his  lips, 
Adieu  to  all  morality  !  if  Grace 
Make  works  a  vain  ingredient  in  the  case. 
The  Christian  hope  is — Waiter,  draw  the  cork— 
If  I  mistake  not — Blockhead !  with  a  fork  ! 
Without  good  works,  whatever  some  may  boast, 
Mere  folly  and  delusion — Sir,  your  toast. 
My  firm  persuasion  is,  at  least  sometimes, 
That  Heav'n  will  weigh  man's  virtues  and  his  crimes 
With  nice  attention,  in  a  righteous  scale, 
And  save  or  damn  as  these  or  those  prevail. 
I  pi  mt  my  foot  upon  this  ground  of  trust, 
And  silence  ev'ry  fear  with — God  is  just. 
But  if  perchance  on  some  dull  drizzling  day 
A  thought  intrude,  that  says,  or  seems  to  say, 
If  thus  th'  important  cnuse  is  to  be  tried, 
Suppose  the  beam  should  dip  on  the  wrong  side; 
I  soon  recover  from  these  needless  frights, 
And  God  is  merciful — sets  all  to  rights. 


HOPE.  67 

Thus  between  justice,  as  my  prime  support, 
And  mercy,  fled  to  as  the  last  resort, 
I  glide  anil  steal  along  with  Heav'n  in  view, 
Anil, — pardon  me,  the  bottle  stands  with  you. 

I  never  will  believe,  the  Col'nel  cries, 
The  sanguinary  schemes  that  some  devise, 
Who  make  the  good  Creator  on  their  plan 
A  being  of  less  equity  than  man. 
If  appetite,  or  what  divines  c  ill  lust, 
Which  men  comply  with,  e'en  because  they  must, 
Be  punished  with  perdition,  who  is  pure  ? 
Then  theirs,  no  doubt,  as  well  as  mine,  is?  sure. 
ff  sentence  of  eternal  pain  belong 
To  ev'ry  sudden  slip  and  transient  wrong, 
Then  Heav'n  enjoins  the  fallible  and  frail 
A  hopeless  task,  and  damns  diem  if  they  fail. 
My  creed  (whatever  some  creed -makers  mean 
By  Athanasian  nonsense,  or  Nicene)— 
My  creed  is,  he  is  safe  that  does  his  best, 
And  death's  a  doom  sufficient  for  the  rest. 

Right,  says  an  ensign  ;  and,  for  aught  J  see, 
Your  faith  and  mine  substantially  agree  ; 
The  best  of  ev'ry  man's  performance  here 
Is  to  discharge  the  duties  of  his  sphere. 
A  lawyer's  dealings  should  be  just  and  fair, 
Honesty  shines  with  great  advantage  there. 
Fasting  and  pray'r  sit  well  upon  a  priest, 
A  decent  eaution  and  reserve  at  least. 
A  soldier's  best  is  courage  in  the  field, 
With  nothing  here  that  wants  to  be  conceaJ',1. 
Manly  deportment,  gallant,  easy,  gay  ; 
A  hand  as  lib'ral  as  the  light  of  day. 
The  soldier  thus  endnw'd,  who  never  shrinks, 
Nor  closets  up  his  thoughts,  whate'er  be  thinks, 
Who  scorns  to  do  an  injury  by  stealth, 
Must  goto  Heav'n — and  I  must  drink  his  health 
Sir  Smug,  he  cries,  (for  lowest  at  the  board, 
Just  made  fifth  chaplain  of  his  patron  lord, 
His  shoulders  witnessing,  by  many  a  shrug, 
How  much  his  feelings  sufrer'd,  sat  Sir  Smug,) 
Yi.iiir  office  is  to  winnow  false  from  true  ; 
Come,  prophet,  drink,  and  tell  us  what  think  you  f 

Sighing  and  smiling  as  he  takes  bis  glass, 
Winch  they  th  it  woo  preferment  rarely  pa<s, 
Fallible  m.ni,  the  church-bred  youth  replies, 
Is  still  found  fallible,  rfowever  wise  ; 
And  ditfring  judgments  serve  but  to  declare, 
That  truth  lies  somewhere,  if  we  knew  but  where. 
Of  all  it  ever  was  my  Jot  to  read, 


CO  HOFE. 

Of  critics  now  alive,  or  long  since  dead, 

The  book  of  all  the  world  that  charm'd  me  most 

Was, — welladay,  the  titlep:ige  was  lost ; 

The  writer  well  remarks,  a  heart  that  knows 

To  take  with  gratitude  what  Heav'n  bestows, 

With  prudence  always  ready  at  our  call, 

To  guide  our  use  of  it,  is  all  in  all. 

Doubtless  it  i>. — To  which,  of  my  own  store, 

I  superadcl  a  few  essentials  more ; 

But  these,  excuse  the  liberty  I  take, 

I  wave  just  now,  for  convers  ition's  sake — 

Spoke  like  an  oracle,  they  all  exclaim, 

And  add  Right  Rev'rend  to  Smug's  honour'd  name 

And  yet  our  lot  is  giv'n  us  in  a  land, 
Where  busy  arts  are  never  at  a  stand; 
Where  Science  points  her  telescopic  eye, 
Familiar  with  the  wonders  of  the  sky; 
Where  bold  Inquiry,  diving  out  of  sight, 
Brings  m.my  a  precious  pearl  of  truth  to  light; 
Where  nought  eludes  the  persevering  quest 
That  fashion,  taste,  or  luxury,  suggest. 

But,  above  all,  in  her  own  light  array'd, 
See  Mercy's  grand  apocalypse  clisplay'd  ! 
The  sacred  book  no  longer  suffers  wrong, 
Bound  in  the  fetters  of  an  unknown  tongue; 
But  speaks  with  plainness,  art  could  never  mend, 
What  simplest  minds  can  soonest  comprehend. 
God  gives  the  word,  the  preachers  throng  around, 
Live  from  his  lips,  and  spread  the  glorious  sound: 
That  sound  bespeaks  Salvation  on  her  way, 
The  trumpet  of  a  life-restoring  day  ; 
'Tis  heard  where  England's  eastern  glory  shines, 
And  in  the  gulfs  of  her  Cornubian  mines. 
And  still  it  spreads.     See  Germany  send  fo.th 
Her  sons*  to  pour  it  on  the  farthest  north  ; 
Fir'd  with  a  zeal  peculiar,  they  defy 
The  rage  and  rigour  of  a  polar  sky, 
And  plant  successfully  sweet  Sharon's  rose 
On  icy  plains,  and  in  eternal  snows. 

O  blest  within  th'inclosure  of  your  rocks, 
Nor  herds  have  ye  to  boast,  nor  bleating  flocks; 
No  fertilizing  streams  your  fields  divide, 
.  That  show  revers'd  the  villas  on  their  side ; 

No  groves  have  ye  ;  no  cheerful  sound  of  bird, 
Or  voice  of  turtle  in  your  land  is  heard  ; 
Nor  grateful  eglantine  regales  the  smell 
Of  those,  that  walk  at  ev'ning  where  ye  dwell : 

•  Ths  Moravian  Missionaries  in  Greenland.    See  KranU. 


HOPE.  ( 

But  Winter,  arm'd  with  terrors  here  unknown, 
Sit<  absolute  on  his  unshaken  throne  ; 
Piles  up  liis  stores  amidst  f.he  frozen  waste, 
And  bids  the  mountains  he  has  built  stand  fast; 
Beckons  the  legions  ot'his  storms  away 
From  happier  scenes,  to  make  your  land  a  prev ; 
Proclaims  the  soil  a  conquest  he  has  won, 
And  scorns  to  share  it  with  the  distant  sun. 
Yet  Truth  is  yours,  remote,  unenvied  isle  ! 
And  Peace,  the  genuine  offspring  of  her  smile; 
The  pride  of  letter'd  Ignorance,  that  hinds 
In  chains  of  error  our  accomplish 'd  minds, 
That  decks,  with  all  the  splendour  of  the  true, 
A  false  religion,  is  unknown  to  you. 
Nature,  indeed,  vouchsafes  for  our  delight 
The  sweet  vicissitudes  of  day  and  night ; 
Soft  airs  and  genial  moisture  feed  and  cheer 
Field,  fruit,  and  flo^'r,  and  ev'ry  creature  here  ; 
But  brighter  beams  than  his  who  tires  the  skies, 
Have  ris'n  at  length  on  your  admiring  eyes, 
That  shoot  into  your  darkest  caves  the  day, 
From  which  our  nicer  optics  turn  away. 

Here  see  th'encou'agement  Grace  give>  to  vice, 
The  dire  effect  of  mercy  without  price! 
What  were  they  ?   what  some  fools  are  made  by  art, 
They  were  by  nature,  atheists,  head  and  heart. 
The  gross  idolatry  blind  heathens  teach 
Was  too  refin'd  for  them,  beyond  their  reach. 
Not  e'en  the  glorions*Sun,  though  men  revere 
The  monarch  most,  that  seldom  will  appear, 
And  though  his  beams,  that  quicken  where  they  shine, 
May  claim  some  right  to  be  esteem' d  divine, 
Not  e'en  the  sun,  desirable  as  rare, 
Could  bend  one  knee,  engage  one  vot'ry  there; 
They  were,  what  base  Credulity  believes 
True  Christians  are,  dissemblers,  drunkard?    thieves. 
The  full-gorged  savage,  at  his  nauseous  feast, 
Spent  half  the  darkness,  and  snor'd  out  the  '  est, 
Was  one,  whom  Justice,  on  an  equal  plan, 
Denouncing  death  upon  the  sins  of  man. 
Might  al;uost  have  indulg'd  with  an  escape, 
Chargeable  only  with  a  human  shape. 
What  are  they  now? — Morality  mny  spare 
Her  grave  concern,  her  kind  suspicions  the:'!  : 
The  wretch,  who   once  sang  wil  'ly,    das-.c'd.    .:•.  !   laugh'd, 
And  suck'd  in  dizzy  madness  with  lii>  drMiglu, 
Has  wept  a  silent  flood,  rever'sd  his  \v,,\s, 
Is  sober,  meek,  benevolent,  and  prays, 
Feeds  sparingly,  communicates  his  store, 


70  HOPE. 

Abhors  tne  craft  he  boasted  of  before, 
And  he  that  stole,  has  lea-n'd  to  steal  no  more. 
Well  spaKc  the  prophet,  Let  the  desert  sing, 
Where  sprang  the  thorn,  the  spiry  fir  shall  spring, 
Ami  where  unsightly  and  rank  thistles  grew, 
Shall  grow  the  myrtle  and  luxuriant  yew. 

Go  now.  and  with  important  tone  demand 
On  wh;it  foundation  virtue  is  to  stand, 
If  self-exalting  claims  be  turn'd  adrift, 
And  grace  be  grace  indeed,  and  life  a  gift; 
The  poor  reclaun'd  inhabitant,  his  eyes 
Glist'ning  at  once  with  pity  and  surprise, 
Ama/'d  that  shadows  should  obscure  the  sight 
Of  one,  whose  birth  was  in  a  land  of  light, 
Shall  answer,  Hope,  sweet  Hope,  has  set  me  free, 
And   made  all  pleasures  else  mere  dross  to  me. 

These,  amidst  scenes  as  waste  as  if  denied 
The  common  care  that  waits  on  all  beside, 
Wild  as  if  Nature  there,  void  of  all  good, 
Play'd  only  gambols  in  a  frantic  mood, 
(Yet  change  not  heav'nly  skill  with  having  planu'd 
A  plaything  world,  unworthy  of  his  hand.) 
Can    see  his  lo^e,  though  secret  evil  lurks 
In  all  we  touch,  stamp'd  plainly  on  his  works, 
Deem  life  a  blessing  with  its  num'rous  woes, 
Nor  spurn  away  a  gift  a  God  bestows. 
Hard  task,  indeed,  o'er  arctic  seas  to  roam ! 
Is  hope  exotic  ?  grows  it  not  at  home  ? 
Yes,  but  an  object,  bright  as  orient  morn, 
May  press  the  eye  too  closely  to  be  borne; 
A  distant  virtue  we  can  all  confess, 
It  hurts  our  pride,  and  mcves  our  envy,  less. 

Leuconomus  (beneath  well-sounding  Greek 
I  slur  a  name  a  poet  must  not  speak) 
Stood  pilloried  on  Infamy's  high  stage, 
And  bore  the  pelting  score  of  half  an  age; 
The  very  butt  of  Slander,  and  the  blot 
For  ev'ry  dart  that  Malice  ever  shot. 
The  man  that  mention'd  him  at  once  dismiss'd 
All  mercy  from  his  lips,  and  sneer'd  and  hiss'd  ; 
His  crimes  were  such  as  Sodom  never  knew, 
And  Perjury  stood  up  to  swear  all  true  ; 
His  aim  was  mischief,  and  his  zeal  pretence, 
His  speech  rebellion  against  common  sense  ; 
A  knave,  when  tried  on  honesty's  plain  rule; 
And  when  by  that  of  reason,  a  mere  fool; 
The  World's  best  comfort  was,  his  doom  was  pas»s'cl ; 
Die  when  he  might,  he  must  be  damn'd  at  last. 

Kow,  Truth,  perform  thine  office;  waft  aside 


HOPE.  71 

The  curtain  dVawn  by  Prejudice  and  Prule, 

Reveal  (the  man  is  dead)  to  wond'ring  eyes 

This  more  than  mons:er,  in  his  proper  guise. 

He  lov'd  the  World  that  hated  him :  the  tear 

That  dropp'd  upon  his  Bible  was  sincere: 

AssaiI'd  by  scandal  and  the  tongue  of  strife, 

His  only  answer  was  a  blameless  life  ; 

And  he  that  forg'd,  and  he  that  threw  the  dart, 

Had  each  a  brother's  int'rest  in  his  heart. 

Paul's  love  of  Christ,  and  steadiness  unbrib'd, 

Were  copies  close  in  him,  and  well  transcrib'd. 

He  follow'd  Paul  ;  his  zeal  a  kindred  flame, 

His  apostolic  charity  the  same. 

Like  him,  cross'd  cheerfully  tempestuous  seas, 

Forsaking  country,  kindred,  friends,  and  ease ; 

Like  him  he  labour'd,  and  like  him  content 

To  hear  it,  suffer 'd  shame  where'er  he  went. 

Blush,  Calumny !  and  write  upon  his  tomb, 

If  honest  Eulogy  can  spare  thee  room, 

Thy  deep  repentance  of  thy  thousand  lies, 

Which,  aim'd  at  him,  have  pierc'd  th'oflended  skies  I 

And  say,  Blot  out  my  sin,  confess'd,  deplor'd, 

Againsr  thine  image,  in  thy  saint,  O  Lord! 

No  blinder  bigot,  1  maintain  it  still, 
Than  he  who  must  have  pleasure,  come  what  will: 

He  laughs,  whatever  weapon  Truth  may  draw, 

And  deems  her  sharp  artillery  mere  straw. 

Scripture  indeed  is  plain ;  hut  God  and  he 
On  Scripture  ground  are  sure  to  disagree ; 
Some  wiser  rule  must  teach  him  how  to  live, 
Than  this  his  Maker  has  seen  fit  to  givej 
Supple  and  flexible  as  Indian  cane, 
TO  take  the  bend  his  appetites  ordain; 
Contriv'd  to  suit  frail  Nature's  crazy  case, 
And  reconcile  his  lusts  with  saving  grace. 
By  this,  with  nice  precision  of  design, 
He  draws  upon  life's  map  a  zigzag  line, 
That  shows  how  far  'tis  safe  to  follow  sin, 
And  where  his  danger  and  God's  wrath  begin. 
By  this  he  forms,  as  pleas'd  he  sports  along, 
His  well-pois'd  estimate  of  right  and  wrong; 
And  finds  the  modish  manners  of  the  day, 
Though  loose,  as  harmless  as  an  infant's  play. 

Build  by  whatever  plan  Caprice  decrees, 
With  that  materials,  on  what  ground  you  please; 
Your  hope  shall  stand  unblam'd,  perhaps  admir'd, 
If  not  that  hope  the  Scripture  has  requir'd. 
The  strange  conceits,  vain  projects,  and  wild  dreams, 
With  which  hypocrisy  for  ever  teems. 


72  HOPE. 

(Though  other  follies  strike  the  public  eye, 

And  raise  a  laugh,)  pass  unmolested  by; 

But  if,  unblameable  in  word  and  thought, 

A  man  arise,  a  man  whom  God  has  taught, 

With  ail  Elijah's  dignity  of  tone, 

And  all  the  love  of  the  beloved  John, 

To  storm  the  citadels  they  build  in  air, 

And  smite  th'untemper  d  wall ;  'tis  death  to  spare, 

To  sweep  away  all  refuges  of  lies, 

And  place,  instead  of  quirks  themselves  devise, 

Lama  Sabacthani  before  their  eyes  ; 

To  prove,  that  without  Christ  all  gain  is  loss, 

All  hope  desp  iir,  that  stands  not  on  his  cross ; 

Except  the  few  his  God  may  have  impress'd, 

A  tenfold  frenzy  seizes  all  the  rest. 

Throughout  mankind,  the  Christian  kind  at  least, 
There  dwells  a  consciousness  in  ev'ry  breast, 
That  folly  ends  where  genuine  hope  begins, 
And  he  that  finds  his  Heav'n  must  lose  his  sins. 
Nature  opposes  with  her  utmost  force 
This  riving  stroke,  this  ultimate  divorce; 
And,  while  religion  seems  to  be  her  view, 
Hates  with  a  deep  sincerity  tie  true : 
For  this,  of  all  that  ever  influenc'd  man, 
Since  Abel  worshipp'd,  or  the  world  began, 
This  only  spares  no  lust,  admits  no  plea, 
But  makes  him,  if  at  all,  completely  free  ; 
Sounds  forth  the  signal,  as  she  mounts  her  car, 
Of  an  eternal,  universal  war  ; 
Rejects  all  treaty,  penetrates  all  wiles, 
Scorns  with  the  same  indifFrence  frowns  and  smiles; 
Drives  through  the  realms  of  Sin,  where  Riot  reels, 
And  grinds  his  crown  beneath  her  burning  wheels! 
Hence  all  that  is  in  man,  pride,  passion,  art, 
Pow'r-s  of  the  mind,  arid  feelings  of  the  heart, 
Insensible  of  Truth's  almighty  charms, 
Starts  at  her  first  approach,  and  sounds  to  arms! 
While  Bigotry,  with  well-dissembled  fears, 
His  eyes  shut  fast,  his  fingers  in  his  ears, 
Mighty  to  parry  and  push  by  God's  word, 
With  senseless  noise,  his  argument  the  sword, 
Pretends  a  zeal  for  godliness  and  grace, 
And  spits  abhorrence  in  the  Christian's  face. 

Parent  of  Hope,  immortal  Truth  !  make  known 
Thy  deathless  wreaths,  and  triumphs  all  thine  own: 
The  silent  progress  of  thy  pow'r  is  such, 
Thy  means  so  feeble,  and  despis'd  so  mu  h, 
That  few  believe  the  wonders  thou  hast  wrought, 
And  none  can  teach  them,  but  whom  thou  hast  taught 


HOPE.  73 

O  see  me  sworn  to  serve  thee,  and  command 

A  painter's  skill  into  a  poet's  hand, 

That,  while  I  trembling  trace  a  work  divine, 

Fancy  may  stand  aloof  from  the  design, 

And  light,  and  shade,  and  ev'ry  stroke  be  thine. 

if  ever  thou  hast  felt  another's  pain, 
If  ever  when  he  sigh'd  hast  sigh'd  again, 
If  ever  on  thy  eyelid  stood  the  tear, 
That  pity  had  engender'd,  drop  one  here. 
This  man  was  happy — had  the  World's  good  word, 
And  with  it  ev'ry  joy  it  can  afford  ; 
Friendship  and  love  seem'd  tenderly  at  strife, 
Which  most  should  sweeten  his  untroubled  life; 
Politely  learn' (1,  and  of  a  gentle  race, 
Good  breeding  and  good  sense  gave  all  a  grace, 
And  whether  at  the  toilette  of  the  fair, 
He  laugh 'd  and  trifled,  made  him  welcome  there, 
Or  if  in  masculine  debate  he  shar'd, 
Ensur'd  him  mute  attention  and  regard. 
Alas  how  chang'd!  Expressive  of  his  mind, 
His  eyes  are  sunk,  arms  folded,  head  reclin'd; 
Those  awlul  syllables,  Hell,  death,  and  sin, 
Though  whisper'd,  plainly  tell  what  works  within; 
That  Conscience  there  performs  her  proper  part, 
And  writes  a  doomsday  sentence  on  his  heart ; 
Forsaking,  and  forsaken  of  all  friends, 
He  now  perceives  where  earthly  pleasure  ends ; 
Hard  task !  for  one  who  lately  knew  no  care, 
And  harder  still  as  learnt  beneath  despair ; 
His  hours  no  longer  pass  unmark'd  away, 
A  dark  importance  saddens  ev'ry  day; 
He  hears  the  notice  of  the  clock  perplex'd, 
And  cries,  Perhaps  eternity  strikes  next ; 
Sweet  music  is  no  longer  music  here, 
And  laughter  sounds  like  madness  in  his  ear : 
His  grief  the  World  of  all  her  pow'r  disarms, 
Wine  has  no  taste,  and  beauty  has  no  charms: 
God's  holy  word,  once  trivial  in  his  view, 
Now  by  the  voice  of  his  experience  true, 
Seems,  as  it  is,  the  fountain  whence  alone 
Must  spring  that  hope  he  pants  to  make  his  own. 

Now  let  the  bright  reverse  be  known  abroad ; 
Say  man's  a  worm,  and  pow'r  belongs  to  God. 

As  when  a  felon,  whom  his  country's  laws 
Have  justly  doom'd  for  some  atrocious  cause, 
Expects  in  darkness  and  heart-chilling  fears, 
The  shameful  close  of  all  his  misspent  years  ; 
If  chance,  on  heavy  pinions  slowly  borne, 
A  tempest  usher  in  the  dreadful  morn, 

H 


74  HOPE. 

Upon  his  dungeon  walls  the  lightnings  play, 

The  thunder  seems  to  summon  him  away, 

The  warder  at  the  door  his  key  applies. 

Shoots  back  the  bolt,  and  all  his  courage  dies: 

If  then,  just  then,  all  thoughts  of  mercy  lost, 

When  Hope,  long  ling'ring,  at  last  yields  the  ghost, 

The  sound  of  pardon  pierce  his  startled  ear, 

He  drops  at  once  his  fetters  and  his  fear ; 

A  transport  glows  in  all  he  looks  and  speaks, 

And  the  first  thankful  tears  bedew  his  cheeks. 

Joy,  far  superior  joy,  that  much  outweighs 

The  comfort  of  a  few  poor  added  days, 

Invades,  possesses,  and  o'erwhelms  the  soul 

Of  him,  whom  Hope  has  with  a  touch  made  whole 

'Tis  Heav'n,  all  Heav'n  descending  on  the  wings 

Of  the  glad  legions  of  the  King  of  kings; 

'Tis  more — 'tis  God  diflus'd  through  ev'iy  part, 

'Tis  God  himself  triumphant  in  his  heart. 

O  welcome  now  the  Sun's  once  hated  light, 

His  noonday  beams  were  never  half  so  bright 

Not  kindred  minds  alone  are  call'd  t'employ 

Their  hours,  their  days,  in  list'ning  to  his  joy ; 

Unconscious  nature,  all  that  he  surveys, 

Rocks,  groves,  and   streams,  must  join  him  in  his  praise. 

These  are  thy  glorious  works,  eternal  Truth, 
The  scoff  of  wither'd  age  and  beardless  youth  ; 
These  move  the  censure  and  illib'ral  grin 
Of  fools,  that  hate  thee  and  delight  in  sin: 
But  these  shall  last  when  night  has  quench'd  the  pole, 
And  Heav'n  is  all  departed  as  a  scroll. 
And  when,  as  Justice  has  long  since  decreed, 
This  Earth  shall  blaztf,  and  a  new  world  succeed, 
Then  these  thy  glorious  works,  and  they  who  share 
That  hope,  which  can  alone  exclude  despair, 
Shall  live  exempt  from  weakness  and  decay, 
The  brightest  wonders  of  an  endless  day. 

Happy  the  bard,  (if  that  fair  name  belong 
To  him,  that  blends  no  fable  with  his  song,) 
Whose  lines  uniting,  by  an  honest  art, 
The  faithful  monitor's  and  poet's  part, 
Seek  to  delight,  that  they  may  mend  mankind, 
And,  while  they  captivate,  inform  the  mind: 
Still  happier,  if  he  till  a  thankful  soil, 
And  fruit  r<v\v;ird  his  honourable  toil: 
But  happier  far,  who  comfort  those,  th«»t  wait 
To  hear  plain  truth  at  Judah's  hallow'd  gate: 
Their  language  simple,  as  their  manners  meek, 
No  shining  ornaments  have  they  to  seek  ; 
Nor  labour  they,  nor  time  nor  talents  waste, 


HOPE.  76 


In  sorting  flow'rs  to  suit  a  fickle  taste: 
But  while  they  speak  tlie  wisdom  ot  the  skies, 
Which  art  can  only  darken  and  disguise, 
Th'  abundant  harvest,  recompense  divine, 
Repays  their  work — the  gleaning  only  mine. 


CHARITY. 


'Quo  nihil  majus  meliusve  terns 
Fata  donave,  bonique  divi ; 

dabunt,  quamvis  redeant  in 
Tempora  priscum." — 

Hor.  Lib.  hr.  Od.  2. 


Fairest  and  foremost  of  the  train,  that  wait 
On  man's  most  dignified  and  happiest  state, 
Whether  we  name  thee  Charity  or  Love, 
Chief  grace  below,  and  all  in  all  above, 
Prosper  (I  press  thee  with  a  pow'rful  plea) 
A  task  I  venture  on,  impell'd  by  thee  : 
O  never  seen  but  in  thy  blest  effects, 
Or  felt  but  in  the  soul  that  Heav'n  selects; 
Who  seeks  to  praise  thee,  and  to  make  thee  known 
To  other  hearts,  must  have  thee  in  his  own. 
Come,  prompt  me  with  benevolent  desires, 
Teach  me  to  kindle  at  thy  gentle  fires, 
And,  though  disgrac'd  and  slighted,  to  redeem 
A  poet's  name,  by  making  thee  the  theme. 

God,  working  ever  on  a  social  plan, 
By  various  ties  attaches  man  to  man : 
He  made  at  first,  though  free  and  unconfin'd, 
One  man  the  common  .father  of  the  kind  ; 
That  ev'ry  tribe,  though  plac'd  as  he  sees  best, 
Where  seas  or  deserts  part  them  from  the  rest, 
DiiT ring  in  language,  manners,  or  in  face, 
Might  feel  themselves  allied  to  all  the  race. 
When  Cook— lamented,  and  with  tears  as  just 
As  ever  mingled  with  heroic  dust,— 
Steer'd  Britain's  oak  into  a  world  unknown, 
And  in  his  country's  glory  sought  his  own, 
Wherever  he  found  man,  to  nature  trus, 
The  rights  of  man  were  sacred  in  his  view; 
He  sooth'd  with  gifts,  and  greeted  with  a  smile, 
The  simple  native  of  the  new-found  isle  ; 
He  spurn'd  the  wretch,  that  slighted  or  withstood 


CHARITY.  77 

The  tender  argument  of  kindred  blood, 
Nor  would  endure,  that  any  should  control 
His  freeborn  brethren  of  the  southern  pole. 

But  though  some  nobler  minds  a  law  respect, 
That  none  shall  with  impunity  neglect, 
In  baser  souls  unnumber'd  evils  meet, 
To  thwart  its  influence,  and  its  end  defeat. 
While  Cook  is  lov'd  for  sav;ige  lives  he  sav'd, 
See  Coitez  odious  for  a  world  enslav'd ! 
Where  wast  thou  then,  sweet  Charity?  where  then, 
Thou  tutelary  friend  of  helpless  men  ? 
Wast  thou  in  monkish  cells  and  nunn'ries  found, 
Or  buildinz  hospitals  on  English  ground  ? 
N0_Mammon  makes  the  World  his  legatee 
Through  fear,  not  love  ;  and  Heav'n  abhors  the  fee. 
Wherever  found,  (and  all  men  need  thy  care,) 
Nor  age  nor  infancy  could  find  thee  there. 
The  hand,  that  slew  till  it  could  slay  no  more, 
WTas  glued  to  the  sword-hilt  with  Indian  gore. 
Their  prince,  as  justly  seated  on  his  throne 
As  vain  imperial  Philip  on  his  own, 
Trick'd  out  of  all  his  royalty  by  art, 
That  stripp'd  him  bare,  and  broke  his  honest  heart, 
Died  by  the  sentence  of  a  shaven  priest, 
For  scorning  what  they  taught  him  to  detest. 
How  dark  the  veil,  that  intercepts  the  blaze 
Of  Heav'n's  mysterious  purposes  and  ways  ! 
God  stood  not,  though  he  seem'd  to  stand,  aloof; 
And  at  this  hour  the  conqu'ror  feels  the  proof : 
The  wreath  he  won  drew  down  an  instant  curse, 
The  fretting  plague  is  in  the  public  purse, 
The  canker'd  spoil  corrodes  the  pining  state, 
Starv'd  by  that  indolence  their  mines  create. 

Oh  could  their  ancient  Incas  rise  again, 
How  would  they  take  up  Israel's  taunting  strain  ! 
Art  then  too  fall'n  Iberia?     Do  we  see 
The  robber  and  the  murd'rer  weak  as  we  ? 
Thou,  that  hast  wasted  Earth,  and  dar'd  despise 
Alike  the  wrath  and  mercy  of  the  skies, 
Thy  pomp  is  in  the  grave,  thy  glory  laid 
Low  in  the  pits  thine  avarice  has  made. 
We  come  with  joy  from  our  eternal  rest, 
To  see  th'  oppressor  in  his  turn  oppressed. 
Art  thou  the  god,  the  thunder  of  whose  hand 
Roll'd  over  all  our  desolated  land, 
Shook  principalities  and  kingdoms  down. 
And  made  the  mountains  tremble  at  his  frown  ? 
The  sword  shall  light  upon  thy  boasted  pow'rs, 
And  waste  them,  as  thy  sword  has  wasted  ours. 

H  2 


78  CHARITY. 

'Tis  thus  Omnipotence  Ins  law  fulfils, 

And  Vengeance  executes  what  Justice  wills, 

Again — the  band  of  commerce  was  design'd 
T'associate  all  the  branches  of  mankind; 
And  if  a  boundless  plenty  be  the  robe, 
Trade  is  the  golden  girdle  of  the  globe. 
Wise  to  promote  whatever  end  he  means, 
God  opens  fruitful  nature's  various  scen&s : 
Each  climate  needs  what  other  climes  produce, 
And  offers  something  to  the  gen'ral  use ; 
No  land  but  listens  to  the  common  call, 
And  in  return  receives  supply  from  all. 
This  genial  intercourse,  and  mutual  aid, 
Cheers  what  were  else  an  universal  shade, 
Calls  Nature  from  her  ivy-mantled  den, 
And  softens  human  rock- work  into  men. 
Ingenious  Art,  with  her  expressive  face, 
Steps  forth  to  fashion  -md  refine  the  race  ; 
Not  only  fills  Necessity's  demand, 
But  overcharges  her  capacious  hand : 
Capricious  Taste  itself  can  crave  no  more, 
Than  she  supplies  from  her  abounding  store  ; 
She  strikes  out  all  that  luxury  can  ask, 
And  gains  new  vigour  at  her  endless  task. 
Hers  is  the  spacious  arch,  the  shapely  spire, 
The  painter's  pencil,  and  the  poet's  lyre  ; 
From  her  the  canvass  borrows  light  and  shade, 
And  verse,  more  lasting,  hues  that  never  fade. 
She  guides  the  finder  o'er  the  dancing  keys, 
Gives  difficulty  all  the  grace  of  ease, 
And  pours  a  torrent  of  sweet  notes  around, 
Fast  as  the  thirsting  ear  can  drink  the  sound. 

These  are  the  gift  of  Art,  and  Art  thrives  most 
Where  commerce  has  enrich'd  the  busy  coast; 
He  catches  all  improvements  in  his  flight^ 
Spreads  foreign  wonders  in  his  country's  sight, 
Imports  what  others  have  invented  well, 
And  stirs  his  own  to  match  them,  or  excel. 
'Tis  thus  reciprocating,  each  with  each, 
Alternately  the  nations  learn  and  teach ; 
While  Providence  enjoins  to  ev'ry  soul 
An  union  with  the  vast  terraqueous  whole. 

Heav'n  speed  the  canvass,  gallantly  unfurl'd 
To  furnish   tnd  accomodate  a. world, 
To  give  the  pole  the  produce  of  the  sun, 
And  knit  th 'unsocial  climates  into  one. — 
Soft  airs  and  gentle  heavings  of  the  wave 
Impel  the  fleet,  whose  errand  is  to  save, 
To  succwur  wasted  regions,  and  replace 


CHARITY. 

The  smile  of  Opulence»in  Sorrow's  fc.ce.-~ 

Let  nothing  adverse,  nothing  unforeseen, 

Impede  the  bark,  that  ploughs  the  deep  serene, 

Charg'd  with  a  freight  transcending  in  its  worth 

The  gems  of  India,  Nature's  rarest  birth, 

That  flies,  like  Gabriel  on  his  Lord's  commands. 

A  herald  of  God's  love  to  pagan  lands. 

But  ah  !  what  wish  can  prosper,  or  what  pray'r, 

For  merchants  ricii  m  cargoes  of  despair. 

Who  drive  a  loathsome  traffic,  gauge,  and  span, 

And  buy  the  muscles  and  the  bones  of  man  I 

The  tender  ties  of  father,  husband,  friend, 

All  bonds  of  nature  in  that  moment  end ; 

And  each  endures,  while  yet  lie  draws  his  breath, 

A  stroke  as  fatal  as  the  scythe  of  Death. 

The  sable  warrior,  frantic  with  regret 

Of  her  he  loves,  and   iever  can  forget, 

Loses  in  tears  the  fai -receding  shore, 

But  not  the  thought,  that  they  must  meet  no  more 

Depriv'd  of  her  and  freedom  at  a  blow, 

What  has  he  left  that  he  can  yet  forego  ? 

Yes,  to  deep  sadness  sullenly  resign'd, 

He  feels  his  body's  bondage  in  his  mind  ; 

Puts  otfhis  gen'rous  nature ;  and,  to  suit 

His  manners  with  his  fate,  puts  on  the  brute. 

O  most  degrading  of  ail  ills,  that  wait 
On  many  a  mourner  in  his  best  estate  ! 
All  other  sorrows  Virtue  may  endure, 
And  find  submission  more  than  half  a  cure ; 
Grief  is  itself  a  med'cine,  and  bestow'd 
T'improve  the  fortitude  that  bears  the  Joad, 
To  te  -ch  che  \vaiid'rer,  as  his  woes  increase, 
The  path  of  Wisdom,  all  whose  paths  are  peace  j 
But  slav'ry  ! — Virtue  dreads  it  as  her  grave: 
Patience  itself  is  meanness  in  a  slave  : 
Or  if  the  will  and  sov'reignty  of  God 
Bid  suffer  it  a  while,  and  kiss  the  rod, 
Wait  for  the  dawning  of  a  brighter  day, 
And  snap  the  chain  the  moment  when  you, may. 
Nature  imprints  up.on  whate'er  we  see 
That  has  a  heart  and  life  in  it,  Be  free 
The  be  ;sts  are  charter' d — neither  age  nor  force 
Can  queli  the  love  of  freedom  in  a  horse: 
He  breaks  the  cord  that  h?ld  him    at  the  n:ck  ; 
And,  conscious  of  an  unei.eumber'd  ba^k, 
!;  nuifs  up  the  inc..  iir,  :      ;cts  the  rein  ; 

I  oose  fly  his  .nd  his  ample  mane  ; 

Responsive  to  '.Mant  neigh  he  neighs;" 

JSor  stops  till,  overleaping  all  delays, 


SO  CHARITY. 


He  finds  the  pasture  where  life  fellows  graze 

Canst  thou,  and  honor'd  with  a  Christian  name, 
Buy  what  is  woman-born,  and  feel  no  shame  ; 
Trade  in  the  blood  of  innocence,  and  plead 
Expedience  as  a  warrant  for  the  deed  ? 
So  may  the  wolf,  whom  famine  has  :ii..de  bold, 
To  quit  the  forest  and  invade  the  fold  : 
So  may  the  ruffian,  who,  with  ghostly  glide, 
Dagger  in  hand,  steals  close  to  your  bed-side  ; 
Not  he,  but  his  emergence  forc'd  the  door, 
He  found  it  inconvenient  to  be  poor. 
Has  God  then  given  its  sweetness  to  the  cane, 
Unless  his  laws  be  trampled  on  —  in  vain  ? 
Built  a  brave  world,  which  cannot  yet  subsist, 
Unless  his  right  to  rule  it  be  dismiss'd  ? 
Impudent  blasphemy  !   So  Folly  pleads, 
And,  Av'rice  being  judge,  with  ease  succeeds. 
But  grant  the  plea,  and  let  it  stand  for  just, 
That  man  make  man  his  prey,  because  he  must  ; 
Still  there  is  room  for  pity  to  abate, 
And  soothe  the  sorrows  of  so  sad  a  state. 
A  Briton  knows,  or  if  he  knows  it  not, 
The  Scripture  plac'd  within  his  reach,  he  ought, 
That  souls  have  no  discriminating  hue, 
Alike  important  in  their  Maker's  view  ; 
That  none  are  free  from  blemish  since  the  fall, 
And  Love  divine  has  paid  one  price  for  all. 
The  wretch,  that  works  and  weeps  without  relief 
Has  one  that  notices  his  silent  grief. 
He  from  whose  hands  alone  all  pow'r  proceeds, 
Ranks  its  abuse  among  the  foulest  deeds, 
Considers  all  injustice  with  a  frown  ; 
But  marks  the  man  that  treads  his  fellow  down. 
Begone  —  the  whip  and  bell  in  that  hard  hand 
Are  hateful  ensigns  of  usurp'd  command. 
Not  Mexico  could  purchase  kings  a  claim 
To  scourge  him,  weariness  his  only  blame. 
Remember  Heav'n  has  an  avenging  rod  : 
To  smite  the  poor  is  treason  again  sjt  God. 

Trouble  is  grudgingly  and  hardly  brook'd, 
While  lii'e's  sublimest  joys  are  overlook'd: 
We  wander  o'er  a  sunburnt  thirsty  soil, 
Murm'ring  and  weary  of  our  daily  toil, 
Forget  t'enjoy  the  palm-tree's  offer'd  shade, 
Or  taste  the  fountain  in  the  neighbouring  glade  : 
Else  who  would  lose,  that  had  the  pow'r  t'  improve, 
Th'  occasion  of  transmuting  fear  to  love? 
O  'tis  a  godlike  privilege  to  save, 
And  he  that  scorns  it  is  himself  a  slave. 


CHARITY.  81 

Inform  his  mind  ;  one  flash  of  heav'nly  day 
Would  heal  his  heart,  ;  nd  melt  his  chains  away. 
"  Beauty  for  ashes"  is  a  gift  indeed  , 
And  slaves,  hy  truth  enlarg'd,  are  doubly  freed. 
Then  would  he  ?ay,  submissive  at  thy  feet, 
While  gratitude  and  love  made  service  sweet, — 
My  dear  d^liv'rer  out  of  hopeless  night, 
Who^e  bounty  bought  me  but  to  give  me  light. 
I  wi&  a  bondman  on  my  native  plain, 
Sin    ^rg'd,  and  Ignorance  made  fast,  the  chain; 
Thy  lips  have  shed  instruction  as  the  dew, 
Taught  me  what  path  to  shun,  and  what  pursue ; 
Farewell  my  former  joys  !   1  sigh  no  more 
For  Africa's  once  loved,  benighted  shore; 
Serving  a  benefactor  I  am  free ; 
At  my  best  home,  if  not  exil'd  from  thee. 

Some  men  make  gain  a  fountain,  whence  proceeds 
A  stream  of  lib'ral  and  heroic  deeds; 
The  swell  of  pity,  not  to  be  confin'd 
Within  the  scanty  limits  of  the  mind, 
Disdains  the  bank,  and  throws  the  golden  sands, 
A  rich  deposit,  on  the  bord'ring  lands  : 
These  have  an  ear  for  his  paternal  call, 
Who  makes  some  rich  for  the  supply  of  all  • 
God's  gift  with  pleasure  in  his  praise  employ; 
And  Thornton  is  familiar  with  the  joy. 

O  could  T  worship  augnt  beneath  the  skies; 
That  earth  has  seL-n,  or  fancy  can  devise, 
Thine  altar,  sacred  Liberty,  should  stand, 
Built  by  no  mercenary  vulgar  hand. 
With  fragrant  turf,  and  Row'rs  as  wild  and  fair 
As  ever  dress'd  a  bank,  or  scented  summer  air. 
Duly,  as  ever  on  the  mountain's  height 
The  peep  of  Morning  shed  a  dawning  light, 
Again,  when  Ev'ning,  in  her  sober  vest, 
Drew  the  gray  curtain  of  the  fading  west, 
My  soul  should  yield  thee  willing  thanks  and  praise, 
For  the  chief  blessings  of  my  fairest  days  : 
Rut       t  were  sacrilege— praise  is  not  thine, 
But  i-'s  who  gave  thee,  and  preserves  thee  mine: 
Else  I  would  say,  and  as  I  spake  bid  fly 
A  captive  bird  into  the  boundless  sky , 
This  triple  realm  adores  thee— thou  art  come 
From  Sparta  hither,  and  art  here  at  home. 
We  fet'l  thy  force  still  active,  at  this  hour 
Enjoy  immunity  from  priestly  p.-w'r, 
\Vhile  Conscience,  happier  th   n  in  ancient  ye  rs, 
Owns  no  superior  bur  the  God  she  !'<•:  rs 
Propitious  spirit !  yet  expunge  a 


82  CHARITY. 

Thy  rights  have  suffer'd,  and  our  land,  too  long. 
Teach  mercy  to  ten  thousand  hearts,  that  snare 
The  fears  and  hopes  of  a  commercial  care. 
Prisons  expect  the  wicked,  and  were  built 
To  bind  the  lawless,  and  to  punish  guilt  ; 
But  shipwreck,  earthquake,  battle,  tire,  and  flood, 
Are  mighty  mischiefs,  not  to  be  withstood  ; 
And  honest  Merit  stands  on  slipp'ry  ground, 
Where  covert  guile  and  artifice  abound. 
Let  just  Restraint,  for  public  peace  design'd, 
Chain  up  the  wolves  and  tigers  of  mankind  ; 
The  foe  of  virtue  has  no  ciaim  to  thee, 
But  let  insolvent  Innocence  go  free. 

Patron  of  else  the  most  despis'd  of  men, 
Accept  the  tribute  of  a  stranger's  pen  ; 
Verse,  like  the  laurel,  its  immortal  meed, 
Should  be  the  guerdon  of  a  noble  deed  ; 
I  may  alarm  thee,  but  I  fear  the  shame 
(Charity  chosen  as  my  theme  and  aim) 
I  must  incur,  forgetting  Howard's  name. 
Blest  with  all  wealth  can  give  thee,  to  resign 
Joys  doubly  sweet  to  feelings  quick  as  thine, 
To  quit  the  bliss  thy  rural  scenes  bestow, 
To  seek  a  nobler  amidst  scenes  of  woe, 
To  traverse  seas  range  kingdoms,  and  bring  home, 
Not  the  proud  monuments  of  Greece  or  Rome, 
But  knowledge  such  as  only  dungeons  tench, 
And  only  sympathy  like  thine  could  reach  ; 
That  grief,  sequester'd  from  the  public  stage, 
Might  smooth  her  feathers,  and  enjoy  her  cage; 
Speaks  a  divine  ambition,  and  a  zeal, 
The  boldest  patriot  might  be  proud  to  feel. 
O  that  the  voice  of  clamor  and  debate, 
That  pleads  for  peace  till  it  disturbs  the  state, 
Were  hush'd  in  favor  of  thy  gen'rous  plea, 
The  pooi-  thy  clients,  and  Heav'n's  smile  thy  fee! 
Philosophy,  that  does  not  dream  or  stray, 
Walks  arm  in  arm  witli  Nature  all  his  way  ; 
Compasses  earth,  dives  into  it,  ascends 
Whatever  steep  Inquiry  recommends, 
Sees  planetary  wonders  smoothly  roll 
Round  other  systems  under  her  control, 
Drinks  wisdom  at  the  milky  stream  of  light, 
That  cheers  the  silent  journey  of  the  night, 
And  brings  at  his  return  a  bosom  charg'd 
With  rich  instruction,  and  a  soul  enlarg'd. 
The  treasur'd  sweets  of  the  capacious  pi, in, 
Tlint  Heav'n  spreads  wide  before  the  view  of  man, 
All  prompt  his  pleas'd  pursuit,  and  to  pursue 


--. 


CHARITY. 


Still  prompt  him,  with  a  pleasure  always  new; 

He  too  has  a  connecting  pow  r,  and  draws 

Man  to  the  centre  of  the  common  cause, 

Aiding  a  dubious  and  deficient  sight 

With  a  new  medium  and  a  purer  light. 

All  truth  is  precious,  if  not  all  divine  ; 

And  what  dilates  the  pow'rs  must  needs  refine. 

Rereads  the  skies,  and,  watching  ev'ry  change, 

Provides  the  faculties  an  ampler  range; 

And  wins  mankind,  as  his  attempts  prevail, 

A  prouder  station  on  the  gen'ral  scale. 

But  Reason  still,  unless  divinely  taught, 

Whate'er  she  learns,  learns  nothing  as  she  ought; 

The  lamp  of  revelation  only  shows, 

What  human  wisdom  cannot  but  oppose, 

That  man,  in  nature's  richest  mantle  clad 

And  grac'd  with  all  philosophy  can  add, 

Though  fair  without,  and  luminous  within, 

Is  still  the  progeny  and  heir  of  sin. 

Thus  taught,  down  falls  the  plumage  of  his  pride  ; 

He  feels  his  need  of  an  unerring  guide, 

And  knows  that  falling  he  shall  i  ise  no  more, 

Unless  the  pow'r  that  bade  hirr  stand  restore. 

This  is  indeed  philosophy  ;  this  known 

Makes  wisdom,  worthy  of  the  name,  his  own; 

And,  without  this,  whatever  he  discuss  ; 

Whether  the  space  between  the  stars  and  us ; 

Whether  he  measure  earth,  compute  the  sea; 

Weigh  sunbeams,  carve  a  fly,  or  spit  a  flea  ; 

The  solemn  trifler  with  his  boasted  skill 

Toils  much,  and  is  a  solemn  trifler  still : 

Blind  was  he  born,  and  his  misguided  eyes 

Grown  dim  in  trifling  studies,  blind  he  dies. 

Self-knowledge  truly  learn.' d  of  course  implies 

The  rich  possession  of  a  nobler  prize  ; 

For  self  to  self,  and  God  to  man  reveal'd, 

(Two  themes  to  Nature's  eye  forever  scal'd) 

Are  taught  by  rays,  that  fly  with  equal  pace 

From  the  same  centre  of  enlight'ning  grace. 

Here  stay  thy  foot ;  how  copious,  and  how  clear, 

Th'  o'erflowing  well  of  Charity  springs  here! 

Hark!   'tis  the  music  of  a  thousand  rills, 

Some  thro'  the  groves,  some  down  the  sloping  hills, 

Winding  a  secret  or  an  open  course, 

And  all  supplied  from  an  eternal  source. 

The  ties  of  Nature  do  but  feebly  bind  ; 

And  Commerce  partially  reclaims  mankind; 

Philosophy.,  without  his  heav'nly  guide, 

May  blow  up  self-conceit,  and  nourish  pride  i 


84  CHARITY. 

But,  while  his  promise  is  the  reas'ning  part, 
Has  still  a  veil  of  midnight  on  his  heart : 
"Pis  Truth  divine,  .exhihited  on  earth, 
Gives  Charity  her  being  arid  her  birth. 

Suppose  (when  thought  is  warm  and  fancy  flows, 
What  will  not  argument  sometimes  suppose?) 
An  isle  possess'd  by  creatures  of  our  kind, 
Endued  with  reason,  yet  by  nature  blind. 
Let  Supposition  lend  her  aid  once  more, 
And  land  some  grave  optician  on  the  shore : 
He  claps  his  lens,  if  haply  they  may  see, 
Close  to  the  part  where  vision  ought  to  be; 
But  finds,  that,  though  his  tubes  assist  the  sight, 
They  cannot  give  it,  or  make  darkness  light. 
He  reads  wise  lectures,  and  describes  aloud 
A  sense  they  know  not,  to  the  wond'ring  crowd; 
He  talks  of  light,  and  the  prismatic  hues, 
As  men  of  depth  in  erudition  use  ; 

But  all  he  gains  for  his  harangue  is — Well, 

What  monstrous  lies  some  travellers  will  tell  ! 

The  soul  whose  sight  all-quick'ning  grace  renews, 
Takes  the  resemblance  of  the  good  she  views, 
As  diamonds,  stripp'd  of  their  opaque  disguise, 
Reflect  the  noonday  glory  of  the  skies. 
She  speaks  of  him,  her  author,  guardian,  friend, 
Whose  love  knew  no  beginning,  knows  no  end, 
In  language  warm  as  all  that  love  inspires, 
And  iu  the  glow  of  her  intense  desires, 
Pants  to  communicate  her  noble  fires. 
She  sees  a  vvorl  I  stark  blind  to  what  employs 
Her  eager  thought,  and  feeds  her  flowing  joys  » 
Though  Wisdom  hail  them,  heedless  of  her  call. 
Flies  to  save  some,  and  feels  a  pang  for  all : 
Herself  as  w^-ak  as  her  support  is  strong, 
She  feels  that  frailty  she  denied  so  long; 
And,  from  a  knowledge  of  her  own  disease, 
Learns  to  compassionate  the  sick  she  sees. 
H  ere  see,  acquitted  of  all  vain  pretence, 
The  reign  of  genuine  Charity  commence. 
Though  scorn  repay  her  sympathetic  tears, 
She  still  is  kind,  and  still  she  perseveres; 
The  truth  she  loves  a  sightless  world  blasphemet 
Tis  childish  dotage,  a  delirious  dream  ; 
The  danger  they  discern  not,  they  deny; 
Laugh  at  their  only  remedy,  and  die. 
But  still  a  soul  thus  touch'd  can  never  cease, 
Whoever  threatens  war,  to  speak  of  peace. 
Pure  in  her  aim,  and  in  her  temper  mild, 
Her  wisdom  seems  the  weakness  of  a  child : 


CHARITY. 

She  makes  excuses  where  she  might  condemn, 
Revil'd  by  those  that  hate  her,  prays  for  them  ; 
Suspicion  lurks  not  in  her  artless  breast, 
The  worst  suggested,  she  believes  the  best; 
Not  soon  provok'd,  however  stung  and  teas'd, 
And,  if  perhaps  made  angry,  soon  appeas'd ; 
Slie  rather  waves  than  will  dispute  her  riglit, 
And,  injur'd,  makes  forgiveness  her  delight. 

Such  was  the  portrait  an  apostle  drew, 
The  bright  original  was  one  he  knew; 
Heav'n  held  his  hand,  the  likeness  must  be  true. 

When  one,  that  holds  communion  with  the  skies, 
Has  till'd  his  urn  where  these  pure  waters  rise, 
And  once  more  mingles  with  us  meaner  things, 
'Tis  e'en  as  if  an  angel  shook  his  wings ; 
Immortal  fragrance  fills  the  circuit  wide, 
That  tells  us  whence  his  treasures  are  supplied. 
So  when  a  ship,  well  freighted  with  the  stores 
The  sun  matures  on  India's  spicy  shores, 
Has  dropp'd  her  anchor,  and  her  canvass  furl'd, 
In  some  safe  haven  of  our  western  world, 
'Twere  vain  inquiry  to  what  port  she  went, 
T'ne  gale  informs  us,  laden  with  the  scent. 

Some  seek,  when  queasy  conscience  has  its  qualms, 
To  lull  the  painful  malady  with  arms; 
But  charity  not  feign'd  intends  alone 
Another's  good — theirs  centres  in  their  own  ; 
And,  too  siio.  t-liv'd  to  reach  the  realms  of  peace, 
Must  cease  for  ever  when  the  poor  shall  cease. 
Flavia,  most  tender  of  her  own  good  name, 
Is  rather  careless  of  her  sister's  fame  : 
Her  superfluity  the  poor  supplies, 
But,  if  she  touch  a  character,  it  dies. 
The  seeming  virtue  weigh'd  against  the  vice, 
She  deems  all  safe,  for  she  has  paid  the  price: 
No  charity  but  alms  au^ht  values  she, 
Except  in  porc'lain  on  her  mantel-tree. 
How  many  deeds,  with  which  the  woild  has  rung, 
From  Pride,  in  league  wuh  Ignorance,  have  sprung] 
But  God  o'errules  all  human  follies  still, 
And  bends  the  tough  ni<  teiials  to  his  will. 
A  conflagation,  or  a  wintry  Hood, 
Has  left  some  hundreds  without  home  or  food  ; 
Extravagance  and  Av'nee  shall  subscribe, 
While  fame  and  self-co'nplacence  are  the  bribe. 
The  brief  proclaim'd,  it  visits  ev'ry  pew, 
But  first  the  squire's,  a  compliment  but  due  : 
With  slow  deliberation  he.  unties 
His  glitt'ring  purse,  that  envy  of  all  eyes 

X 


88  CHARITY. 

And,  while  the  clerk  just  puzzles  out  the  psalm, 
Glides  guinea  behind  guinea  in  his  palm  ; 
Till  finding,  what  he  might  have  found  before, 
A  smaller  piece  amidst  the  precious  store, 
Pmch'd  close  between  his  finger  and  his  thumb, 
He  half  exhibits,  and  then  drops  the  sum. 
Gold  to  be'sure! — Throughout  the  town  'tis  told, 
How  the  good  squire  gives  never  less  than  gold, 
From  motives  such  as  his,  though  not  the  best, 
Springs  in  due  time  supply  for  the  distress'd  ; 
Not  less  effectual  than  what  love  bestows, 
Except  that  office  clips  it  as  it  goes 

But  lest  I  seem  to  sin  against  a  friend, 
And  wound  the  grnce  1  mean  to  recommend, 
(Though  vice  derided  with  a  just  design 
Implies  no  trespass  against  love  divine,) 
Once  more  I  would  adopt  the  graver  style, 
A  teacher  should  be  sparing  of  his  smile. 
Unless  a  love  of  virtue  light  the  flame, 
Satire  is,  more  than  those  he  brands,  to  blame; 
He  hides  behind  a  magisterial  air 
His  own  orfences,  and  strips  others  bare; 
Affects  indeed  a  most  humane  concern, 
That  men,  if  gently  tutor'd,  will  not  learn  ; 
That  mulish  Folly,  not  to  be  reclaimed 
By  softer  methods,  must  be  made  asham'd ; 
But  (I  might  instance  in  St.  Patrick"^  dean) 
Too  often  rails  to  gratify  his  spleen. 
Most  sat'rists  are  indeed  a  public  scourge ; 
Their  mildest  physic  is  a  farrier's  purge; 
Their  acrid  temper  turns,  as  soon  as  stirr'd, 
The  milk  of  their  good  purpose  all  to  curd. 
':  heir  zeal  begotten,  as  their  works  rehearse, 
By  lean  despair  upon  an  empty  purse, 
The  wild  assassins  start  into  the  street, 
Prepar'd  to  poniard  whomsoe'er  they  meet. 
No  skill  in  swordaianship,  however  just, 
Can  be  secure  against  a  madman's  thrust; 
And  even  Virtue,  so  unfairly  match'd, 
-Although  immortal,  nirfy  he  prick'd  or  scratchd. 
When  Scandal  has  new  minted  an  old  lie, 
Or  tax'd  invention  for  a  fresh  supply, 
'Tis  call'd  a  satire,  and  the  world  appears 
Gath'ring  around  it  with  erected  ears: 
A  thousand  names  are  toss'd  into  the  crowd; 
Some  whisper' d  softly,  and  some  twang'  d  aloud; 
Just  as  the  sapience  of  an  author's  brain 
Suggests  it  safe  or  dang'rous  to  be  plain. 
Strange  !  how  the  frequent  interjected  dash 


CHARITY.  87 

Quickens  a  market,  and  helps  off  the  trash  ; 
Th'important  letters,  that  include  the  rest, 
Serve  as  a  key  to  those  that  are  suppress'd  ; 
Conjecture  gripes  the  victim*  in  his  paw, 
The  world  is  charm' d,  and  Scrib  escapes  the  law. 
So,  when  the  cold  damp  shades  of  night  prevail, 
Worm--:  may  be  caught  by  either  head  or  tail  ; 
Forcibly  drawn  from  many  a  close  recess. 
They  meet  with  little  pity,  no  redress  ; 
Plung"  d  in  the  stre;.m  they  lodge  upon  the  mud, 
Food  for  the  famish 'd  rovers  of  the  Hood. 

All  zeal  for  a  reform,  that  gives  offence 
To  peace  and  charity,  is  mere  pretence: 
A  bold  remark,  but  which,  if  well  applied, 
Would  humble  many  a  tow'ring  poet's  pride. 
Perhaps  the  man  was  in  a  sportive  fit, 
And  had  no  other  play-place  for  his  wit ; 
Perhaps  enchanted  with  the  love  of  fame, 
He  sought  the  jewel  in  his  neighbour's  shame  ; 
Perhaps — whatever  end  he  might  pursue, 
The  cause  of  virtue  could  not  be  his  view. 
At  ev'ry  stroke  wit  flashes  in  our  eyes  ; 
The  turns  are  quick,  the  polish'd  points  surprise, 
But  shine  with  cruel  arj  tremendous  charms, 
That,  while  they  please,  possess  us  with  alarms  ; 
So  have  I  seen  (and  hasten'd  to  the  sight 
On  all  the  wings  of  holiday  delight), 
Where  stands  that  monument  of  ancient  pow!r, 
Nam'd,  with  emphatic  dignity,  the  Tow'r, 
Guns,  halberts,  s\voids,  and  pistols,  great  and  small, 
In  starry  forms  dispos'd  upon  the  wall; 
We  wonder,  as  we  gazing  stand  below, 
That  brass  and  steel  should  make  so  fine  a  show  ; 
But  though  we  praise  th'exact  designer's  skill 
Accounts  them  implements  of  mischief  still. 

No  works  shall  find  acceptance  in  that  day, 
When  all  disguises  shall  be  rent  away, 
That  square  not  truly  with  the  Scripture  plan, 
Nor  spring  from  love  to  God,  or  love  to  man. 
As  he  ordains  things  sordid  in  their  birth 
To  be  resolv'd  into  their  parent  earth  ; 
And,  though  the  soul  shall  seek  superior  orbs, 
Whate'er  this  worl  I  produces,  it  absorbs; 
So  self  starts  nothing,  but  what  tends  apace 
Home  to  the  goal,  where  it  began  the  race. 
Such  as  our  motive  i.--,  our  aim  must  be ; 
If  this  be  servile,  that  can  ne'er  I>L-  fiee  : 
if  self  employ  us,  whatsoe'er  is  wrought, 
We  glorify  that  self,  not  him  we  ought; 


88  "HARTTY. 

Such  virtues  had  r.e.ed  prove  then-  own  reward. 

The  judge  of  all  mer  owes  them  no  regard 

True  Charity,  a  plant  divinely  nurs'd, 

Fed  by  the  love  from  which  it  rose  at  first, 

Thrives  against  hope,  and,  in  the  rudest  scene, 

Storms  but  enliven  its  unlading  green: 

Exub'rant  is  the  shadow  it  supplies, 

Its  fruit  on  earth,  its  growth  above  the  skies. 

To  look  at  Him,  who  form'd  us  and  redeem'd, 

So  glorious  now,  though  once  so  disesteem'd, 

To  see  a  God  stretch  forth  his  human  hand, 

T'uphold  the  boundless  scenes  of  his  command; 

To  recollect,  that,  in  a  form  like  ours, 

He  bruis'd  beneath  his  feet  th' infernal  pow'rs, 

\Japtivity  led  captive,  rose  to  claim 

The  wreath  he  won  so  dearly  in  our  name ; 

That,  thron'd  above  all  height,  he  condescends 

To  call  the  few  that  trust  in  him  his  friends; 

That,  in  the  Heav'n  of  heav'ns,  that  space  he  deemf 

Too  scanty  for  th' exertion  of  his  beams, 

And  shines,  as  if  impatient  to  bestow 

Life  and  a  .kingdom  upon  worms  below  ; 

That  sight  imparts  a  never-dying  flame, 

Though  feeble  in  degree,  in  kind  the  same. 

Like  him  the  soul,  thus  kindled  from  above, 

Spreads  wide  her  arms  of  universal  love  ; 

And,  still  enlarg'd  as  she  receives  the  grace, 

Includes  creation  in  her  close  embrace. 

Behold  a  Christian  !  and  without  the  fires 

The  founder  of  that  name  alone  inspires, 

Though  all  accomplishment,  all  knowledge  meet, 

To  make  the  shining  prodigy  complete, 

Whoever  boasts  that  name — behold  a  cheat! 

Were  love,  in  these  the  world's  last  doting  years, 

As  frequent  as  the  want  of  it  appears, 

The  churches  warm'd,  they  would  no  longer  hold 

Such  frozen  figures,  stiff  as  they  are  cold  ; 

Relenting  forms  would  lose  their  pow'r,  or  cease  ;  ' 

And  e'en  thedipp'd  and  sprinkled  live  in  peace: 

Each  heart  would  quit  its  prison  in  the  breast, 

And  flow  in  free  communion  with  the  rest. 

The  statesman,  skill 'd  in  projects  dark  and  deep, 

Might  burn  his  useless  Machiavel,  and  sleep; 

His  budget  often  fill'd,  yet  always  poor, 

Might  swing  at  ease  behind  his  study  door, 

No  longer  prey  upon  our  annual  rents, 

Or  scare  the  nation  with  its  big  contents: 

Disbanded  legions  freely  might  depart, 

And  slaying  man  would  cease  to  be  an  art 


CHARITY. 

No  learned  disputants  would  take  the  field, 

Sure  not  to  conquer,  and  sure  not  to  yield ; 

Both  sides  deceiv'd,  if  rightly  understood, 

Pelting  each  other  ibr  the  public  good. 

Did  charity  prevail,  the  press  would  prove 

A  vehicle  of  virtue,  truth,  and  love; 

And  I  might  spare  myself  the  pains  to  show 

What  few  can  learn,  and  all  suppose  they  know. 

Thus  have  I  thought  to  grace  a  serious  lay 

\Vith  many  a  wild,  indeed,  hut  flow'ry  spray, 

In  hopes  to  gain,  what  else  I  must  have  lost, 

Th'attention  pleasure  has  so  much  engross'd. 

But  if,  unhappily  deceiv'd,  I  dream, 

And  prove  too  weak  for  so  divine  a  theme, 

Let  Charity  forgive  me  a  mistake, 

That  zeal,  not  vanity,  has  chanc'd  to  make;- 

And  spare  the  poet  for  his  subject's  sake. 


90 


CONVERSATION. 


11  Nam  neque  me  tantum  venientis  sibilus  austrl, 
Ne.%  percussa  juvant  fluctu  tarn  litora,  nee  quae 
Saxosas  inter  decurrum  flumina  valles." 

Virg.  Eel.  5 


Though  nature  weigh  our  talents,  and  dispense 
To  ev'ry  man  Ms  modicum  of  sense, 
And  Conversation  in  its  better  part 
May  be  esteem'd  a  gift,  and  not  an  art, 
Yet  much  depends,  as  in  the  tiller's  toil, 
On  culture,  and  the  sowing  of  the  soil. 
Words  learn'd  by  rote  a  parrot  may  rehearse, 
But  talking  is  not  always  to  converse  ; 
Not  more  distinct  from  harmony  divine, 
The  constant  creaking  of  a  country  sign. 
As  alphabets  in  ivory  employ, 
Hour  after  hour,  the  yet  unletter'd  boy, 
Sorting  and  puzzling  with  a  deal  of  glee 
Those  seeds  of  science  call'd  his  ABC; 
So  language  in  the  mouths  of  the  adult, 
Witness  its  insignificant  result, 
Too  often  proves  an  implement  of  play, 
A  toy  to  sport  with,  and  pass  time  away. 
Collect  at  ev'ning  what  the  day  brought  forth, 
Compress  the  sum  into  its  solid  worth, 
And  if  it  weighed  th'  importance  of  a  fly, 
The  scales  are  false,  or  algebra  a  lie. 
Sacred  interpreter  of  human  thought, 
How  few  respect  or  use  thee  as  they  ought ! 
But  all  shall  give  account  of  ev'ry  wrong, 
Who  dare  dishonour  or  defile  the  tongue  ; 
Who  prostitute  it.  in  the  cause  of  vice, 
Or  sell  their  glory  at  a  market-price  ; 
Who  vote  for  hire,  or  point  it  with  lampoon, 
The  dear-bought  placeman,  and  the  cheq>  buffoon 

There  is  a  prurience  in  the  speech  o!  some, 
Wrath  stays  him,  or  else  God  would  strike  them  dumb. 


CONVERSATION.  01 

His  wise  foroearance  has  their  end  in  view. 
They  fill  their  measure,  and  receive  their  due- 
The  heathen  law-givers  of  ancient  days, 
Names  almost  worthy  of  a  Christian's  praise, 
Would  drive  them  forth  from  the  resort  of  men, 
And  shut  up  ev'ry  satyr  in  his  den. 
O  come  not  ye  near  innocence  and  truth, 
Ye  worms  that  eat  into  the  bud  of  youth  1 
Infectious  as  impure,  your  blighting  pow'r 
Taints  in  its  rudiments  the  promis'd  flow'r, 
Its  odour  perish'd,  and  its  charming  hue, 
Thenceforth  'tis  hateful,  for  it  smells  of  you. 
Not  e'en  the  vigorous  and  headlong  rage 
Of  adolescence,  or  a  firmer  age, 
Affords  a  plea  allowable  or  just 
For  making  speech  the  pamperer  of  lust : 
But  when  the  breath  of  age  commits  the  fault, 
'Tis  nauseous  as  the  vapour  of  a  vault. 
So  wither'd  stumps  disgrace  the  sylvan  scene, 
No  longer  fruitful,  and  no  longer  green  ; 
The  sapless  wood,  divested  of  the  bark, 
Grows  fungous,  and  takes  fire  at  ev'ry  spark. 

Oaths  terminate,  as  Paul  observes,  all  strife— 
Some  men  have  surely  then  a  peaceful  life  ; 
Whatever  subject  occupy  discourse, 
The  feats  of  Vestris,  or  the  naval  force, 
Asseveration  bl«st'ring  in  your  face 
Makes  contrad.ction  such  a  hopeless  case: 
In  ev'ry  talc  they  tell,  or  false  or  true, 
Well  known,  or  such  as  no  man  ever  knew, 
They. fix  attention,  heedless  of  your  pain, 
With  oaths  like  rivets  forc'd  into  the  brain  ; 
And  e'en  when  sober  truth  prevails  throughout, 
They  swear  it,  till  affirmance  breeds  a  doubt. 
A  Persian,  humble  servant  of  the  sun, 
Who,  though  devout,  yet  bigotry  h  d  none, 
Hearing  a  lawyer,  grave  in  his  address, 
With  adjurations  ev'ry  word  impress, 
Suppos'd  the  man  a  bishop,  or,  at  least, 
God's  name  so  much  upon  his  'ips,  a  priest ; 
Bow'd  at  the  close  with  all  his  graceful  airs, 
And  begg'd  an  int'rest  in  his  frequent  pray'rs. 

Go,  quit  the  rank  to  which  ye  stood  proferr'd, 
Henceforth  associate  in  one  c.mnnon  herd; 
Religion,  virtue,  reason,  co.nmon  sense, 
Pronounce  yo.j-  human  f  rm  a  fils?  pretence; 
A  mere  disguise,  in  which  a  devil  lurks, 
Who  yet  betrays  his  secrt't  by  his  works. 

Ye  pow'vs  who  rule  the  tongue,  if  such  there  are. 


D2  CONVERSATION. 

And  make  colloquial  happiness  your  care, 
Preserve  me  from  the  thing  I  dread  and  hate, 
A  duel  in  the  form  of  a  debate. 
The  clash  of  arguments  and  jar  of  words, 
Worse  than  the  mortal  biunt  of  rival  swords, 
Decide  no  question  with  their  tedious  length, 
For  opposition  gives  opinion  strength. 
Divert  the  champions  prodigal  of  breath  ; 
And  put  the  peaceably-dispos'd  to  death. 

0  thwart  me  not,  sir  Soph,  at  ev'ry  turn, 
Nor  carp  at  ev'ry  flaw  you  may  discern ; 
Though  syllogisms  hang  riot  on  my  tongue, 

1  am  not  surely  always  in  the  wrong; 
'Tis  hard  if  all  is  false  that  I  advance, 

A  fool  must  now  and  then  be  right  by  chance. 

Not  that  all  freedom  of  dissent  1  blame  ; 

No — there  I  grant  the  privilege  I  claim. 

A  disputable  point  is  no  man's  ground  : 

Rove  where  you  please,  'tis  common  all  around. 

Discourse  may  want  an  animated — No, 

To  brush  the  surface,  and  to  make  it  flow; 

But  still  remember,  if  you  mean  to  please, 

To  press  your  point  wLh  modesty  and  ease. 

The  mark,  at  which  my  juster  aim  I  take, 

Is  contradiction  for  its  own  dear  sake. 

Set  your  opinion  at  whatever  pitch, 

Knots  and  impediments  make  something  hitch; 

Adopt  his  own,  'tis  equally  in  vain, 

Your  thread  of  argument  is  snapp'd  again  ; 

The  wrangler,  rather  than  accord  with  you, 

Will  judge  himself  deceiv'd,  and  prove  it  too.    . 

Vociferated  logic  kills  me  quite, 

A  noisy  man  is  always  in  the  right: 

I  twirl* my  thumbs,  fall  back  into  my  chair, 

Fix  on  the  wainscot  a  distressful  stare, 

And,  when  I  hope  his  blunders  are  all  out, 

Reply  discreetly — To  be  sure — no  doubt ! 

Dubius  is  such  a  scrupulous  good  man — 

Yes — you  may  catch  him  tripping,  if  you  can. 

He  would  not,  with  a  peremptory  tone, 

Assert  the  nose  upon  his  face  his  own ; 

With  hesitation  admirably  slow, 

He  humbly  hopes — presumes — it  may  be  so. 

His  evidence,  if  he  were  call'd  by  law 

To  swear  to  some  enormity  he  saw, 

For  want  of  prominence  and  just  relief, 

Would  hang  an  honest  man,  and  save  a  thief. 

Through  constant  dread  of  ghing  truth  offence, 

He  ties  up  all  his  hearers  in  suspense  ; 


CONVERSATION.  93 

Knows  what  he  knows,  as  if  he  knew  it  not; 

What  he  remembers,  seems  to  have  forgot ; 

His  sole  opinion,  whatsoe'er  befall, 

Cent'ring  at  last  in  having  none  at  all. 

Yet.  though  he  tease  and  balk  your  list'ning  ear 

He  makes  one  useful  point  exceeding  clear; 

Howe'er  ingenious  on  his  dailing  theme 

A  sceptic  in  philosophy  may  seem, 

lleduc'd  to  practice,  his  beloved  rule 

Would  only  prove  him  a  consummate  fool; 

Useless  in  him  alike  both  brain  and  speech, 

Fate  having  plac'd  all  truth  above  his  reach, 

His  ambiguities  his  total  sum, 

He  might  as  well  be  blind,  and  deaf,  and  dumb. 

Where  men  of  judgment  creep  and  feel  their  way, 
The  positive  pronounce  without  dismay; 
Their  want  of  light  and  intellect  supplied 
By  sparks  absurdity  sirikes  out  of  pride. 
\\  iihout  the  means  of  knowing  right  from  wrong, 
They  always  are  decisi\£,  clear,  and  strong; 
Where  others  toil  with  philosophic  force, 
Their  nimble  nonsense  takes  a  shorter  course; 
Flings  at  your  head  conviction  in  the  lump, 
And  gains  remote  conclusions  at  a  jump  : 
Their  own  defect,  invisible  to  them, 
Seen  in  another,  they  at  once  condemn  ; 
And,  though  self-idohz'd  in  ev'ry  case, 
Hate  their  own  likeness  in  a  brother's  face. 
The  cause  is  plain,  and  not  to  be  denied, 
The  proud  are  always  most  piovok'd  by  pride ; 
Few  competitions  but  engender  spite  ; 
And  those  the  most,  where  neither  has  a  right. 

Th;1  point  of  honor  has  been  deem'd  of  use, 
To  teach  good  manners,  and  to  curb  abuse; 
Admit  ic  true,  the  consequence  is  clear, 
Our  polish'd  manners  are  a  mask  we  wear, 
And,  at  the  bottom,  barb'rous  still  and  rude, 
\\  e  are  restrain'd,  indeed,  but  not  subdued. 
The  very  remedy,  however  sure, 
Springs  trom  the  mischief  it.  intends  to  cure, 
And  savage  in  its  principle  appears, 
Tried,  as  it  shoulu  be,  by  the  fruit  it  bears. 
'Tis  hard,  indeed,  it  nothing  will  defend 
Mankind  from  quarrels  bu-t  their  fatal  end  ; 
That  now  and  then  a  hero  must  decease, 
That  the  surviving  world  may  live  in  peace. 
Perhaps  at  last  close  scrutiny  may  show 
The  practice  dastardly,  and  mean,  and  low; 
That  men  engage  in  it  compell'd  by  force. 


91  CONVERSATION. 

And  fear,  not  courage,  is  its  proper  source; 

The  fear  of  tyrant  custom,  and  the  fear 

Lest  fops  should  censure  us,  and  fools  should  sneer. 

At  least,  to  trample  on  our  Maker's  laws, 

And  hazard  life  for  any  or  no  cause, 

To  rush  into  a  fix'd  eternal  state 

Out  of  the  very  flames  of  rage  and  hate, 

Or  send  another  shiv'ring  to  the  bar 

With  all  the  guilt  of  such  unnat'ral  war, 

Whatever  Use  may  urge,  or  Honor  plead, 

On  Reason's  verdict  is  a  madman's  ^eed. 

Am  I  to  set  my  life  upon  a  throw, 

Because  a  bear  is  rude  and  surly  ?  No — 

A  moral,  sensible,  and  well-bred  man 

Will  not  affront  me  ;  and  no  other  can. 

Were  1  empow'r'd  to  regulate  the  lists, 

They  should  encounter  with  well-loaded  fists; 

A  Trojan  combat  would  be  something  new, 

Let  Dares  beat  Entellus  black  and  blue  ; 

Then  each  might  show,  to  his  admiring  friends, 

In  honorable  bumps  his  rich  amends, 

And  carry  in  contusions  of  his  skull, 

A  satisfactory  receipt  in  full. 

A  story,  in  which  native  humor  reigns, 
Is  often  useful,  always  entertains  : 
A  graver  fact,  enlisted  on  your  side, 
May  furnish  illustration,  we'll  applied; 
But  sedentary  weavers  of  long  tales 
Give  me  the  fidgets,  and  my  patience  fails. 
~Tis  the  most  asinine  employ  on  earth, 
To  hear  them  tell  of  parentage  and  birth, 
And  echo  conversations,  dull  and  dry, 
Embellish'd  with — He  .vo?V/,  and  $o  said  1. 
At  ev'ry  interview  their  route  the  same, 
The  repetition  makes  attention  lame  ; 
We  bustle  up  with  unsuccessful  speed, 
And  in  the  saddest  part  cry — Droll  indeed! 
The  p-ith  of  narrative  with  ca-e  pursue, 
Still  making  probability  your  clew  : 
On  all  the  vestiges  of  truth  attend. 
Aud  let  them,  guide  you  to  a  decent  end. 
Of  all  ambitions  man  may  entertain, 
The  worst,  that  can  invade  a  sickly  brain, 
Is  that,  which  angles  hourly  for  surprise, 
Anil  baits  its  hook  with  prodigies  and  lies. 
Credulous  infancy,  or  age  as  weak. 
Are  fittest  auditors  for  such    to  seek, 
Who  to  please  others  will  themselves  disgrace, 
Yet  please  not,  but  alTiout  you  to  your  face. 


CONVERSATION.  05 

A  great  retailer  of  chis  curious  ware 

H  iving  unloaded  and  made  many  stare, 

Can  this  he  true  ? — an  arch  observer  ctiec, 

Yes,  (rather  mov'd)  I  saw  it  with  these  eyes ; 

Sir  !    I  helieve  it  on  that  ground  alone  ; 

I  could  not,  had  I  seen  it  with  my  own. 

A  tale  should  be  judicious,  clear,  succinct  ; 
The  language  plain,  and  incidents  well  lirik'd ; 
Tell  not  as  new  what  ev'ry  body  knows, 
And,  new  or  old.  still  hasten  to  a  close  ; 
There,  cent'ring  in  a  focus  round  and  neat, 
Let  all  your  rays  of  information  meet. 
What  neither  yields  us  profit  nor  delight 
Is  like  a  nurse's  lullaby  at  night ; 
Guy  Earl  of  Warwick,  and  fair  Eleanore, 
Or  giant-killing  Jack,  would  please  me  more. 

The  pipe,  with  solemn  interposing  puff, 
Makes  half  a  sentence  at  a  time  enough; 
The  dozing  sages  drop  the  drowsy  strain, 
Then  pause,  and  puff — and  speak,  and  pause  again. 
Such  often,  like  the  tube  they  so  admire, 
Important  triflers  !   have  more  smoke  than  fire. 
Pernicious  weed!   whose  scent  the  fair  annoys, 
Unfriendly  to  society's  chief  joys, 
Thy  worst  effect  is  banishing:  for  hours 
The  sex,  whose  presence  civilizes  ours: 
Thou  art  indeed  the  drug  a  gard'ner  wants, 
To  poison  vermin  that  infests  his  plants  ; 
But  are  we  so  to  wit  and  beauty  blind, 
As  to  despise  the  glory  of  our  kincl 
And  show  the  softest  minds  and  fairest  forms 
As  little  mercy,  as  he  grubs  and  worms? 
They  dare  not  wait  ilie  riotous  abuse, 
Thy  thirst-creating  steams  at  length  produce, 
When  wine  has  giv'n  indecent  language  birth, 
And  forc'd  the  floodgates  of  licentious  mirth; 
For  sea-born  Venus  her  attachment  shows 
Still  to  that  element  from  which  she  rose, 
And  with  a  quiet,  which  no  fumes  disturb, 
Sips  meek  infusions  of  a  milder  herb. 

Th'emphatic  speaker  dearly  loves  t'oppose 
In  contact  inconvenient,  nose  to  nose. 
As  if  the  gnomon  on  his  neighbour's  phiz, 
Touch'd  with  the  magnet,  had  attracted  his. 
His  whisper'd  theme,  dilated  and  at  large, 
Proves  after  all  a  wind -gun's  airy  charge, 
An  extract  of  his  diary — no  more, 
A  tasteless  journal  of  the  day  before. 
He  wulk'd  abroad,  o'ertaken  in  the  rain, 


!      -  - 


96  CONVERSATION. 

Call'd  on  a  friend,  drank  tea,  stepp'd  home  again, 
Resum'd  his  purpose,  had  a  world  of  talk 
With  one  he  stumbled  on,  and  lost  his  walk. 
I  interrupt  him  with  a  sudden  bow, 
Adieu,  dear  sir !   lest  you  should  lose  it  now. 

I  cannot  talk  with  civet  in  the  room, 
A  fine  puss-gentleman  that's  all  perfume  ; 
The  sight's  enough — no  need  to  smell  a  beau — 
Who  thrusts  his  nose  into  a  raree  show? 
His  odoriferous  attempts  to  please 
Perhaps  might  prosper  with  a  swarm  of  bees; 
But  we  that  make  no  honey,  though  we  sting, 
Poets,  are  sometimes  apt  to  maul  the  thing. 
'Tis  wrong  to  bring  into  a  mix'd  resort, 
What  makes  some  sick,  and  others  a-la-mort: 
An  argument  of  cogence,  we  may  say, 
Why  such  an  one  should  keep  himself  away. 
A  graver  coxcomb  we  may  sometimes  see, 
Quite  as  absurd,  though  not  so  light  as  he  : 
A  shallow  brain  behind  a  serious  mask, 
An  oracle  within  an  empty  cask, 
The  solemn  fop ;  significant  and  budge  ; 
A  fool  with  judges,  amongst  fools  a  judge  ; 
He  says  but  little,  and  that  little  said 
Owes  all  its  weight,  like  loaded  dice,  to  lead. 
His  wit  invites  you  by  his  looks  to  come, 
But  when  you  knock,  it  never  is  at  home. 
'Tis  like  a  parcel  sent  you  by  the  stage, 
Some  handsome  present,  as  your  hopes  presage  ; 

Tis  heavy,  bulky,  and  bids  fair  to  prove 
An  absent  friend's  fidelity  and  love; 

But  when  uupack'd,  your  disappointment  groans 
To  find  it  stuff  d  with  brickbats,  earth,  and  stories. 
Some  men  employ  their  health,  an  ugly  trick, 

In  making  known  how  oft  they  have  been  sick, 

And  give  us  in  recitals  of  disease 

A  doctor's  trouble,  but  without  the  fees  ; 

Relate  how  many  weeks  they  kept  their  bed, 

How  an  emetic  or  cathartic  sped  ; 

Nothing  is  slightly  touch'd,  much  less  forgot, 

Nose,  ears,  and  eyes,  seem  present  on  the  spot. 

Now  the  distemper,  spite  of  draught  or  pill, 

Victorious  seem'd,  and  now  the  doctor's  skill ; 

And  now —  alas  for  unforeseen  mishaps  ! 

They  put  on  a  damp  nightcap  and  relapse ; 

They  thought  they  must  have  died,  they  were  so  badj 

Their  peevish  hearers  almost  wish  they  had. 
Some  fretful  tempers  wince  at  ev'ry  touch, 

You  always  do  too  little  or  too  much  : 


CONVERSATION.  97 

You  speak  with  life,  in  hopes  to  entertain, 
Your  elevated  voice  goes  through  the  brain  ; 
You  fall  at  once  into  a  lower  key, 
That's  worse — the  drone-pipe  of  an  humble  bee. 
The  southern  sash  admits  too  strong  a  light, 
You  rise  and  drop  the  curtain — now  'tis  night. 
He  shakes  with  cold — you  stir  the  fire  and  strive 
To  make  a  blaze— that's  roasting  him  alive. 
Serve  him  with  venison,  and  he  chooses  fish  ; 
With  sole — that's  just  the  sort  he  does  not  wish. 
He  takes  what  he  at  first  profess'd  to  loath, 
And  in  due  time  feeds  heartily  on  both  ; 
Yet  still,  o'erclouded  with  a  constant  frown, 
He  does  not  swallow,  but  he  gulps  it  down. 
Your  hope  to  please  him  vain  on  ev'ry  plan, 
Himself  should  work  that  wonder,  if  he  can — 
Alas  !  his  efforts  double  his  distress, 
He  likes  yours  little,  and  his  own  still  less. 
Thus  always  teasing  others,  always  teas'd, 
His  only  pleasure  is — to  be  displeas'd. 

I  pity  bashful  men,  who  feel  the  pain 
Of  fancied  scorn  and  undeserv'd  disdain, 
And  bear  the  marks  upon  a  blushing  face 
Of  needless  shame,  and  self-impos'd  disgrace. 
Our  sensibilties  are  so  acute, 
The  fear  of  being  silent  makes  us  mute. 
We  sometimes  think  we  could  a  speech  produce 
Much  to  the  purpose,  if  our  tongues  were  loose ; 
But  being  tried,  it  dies  upon  the  lip. 
Faint  as  a  chicken's  note  that  has  the  pip: 
Our  wasted  oil  unprofitably  burns, 
Like  hidden  lamps  in  old  sepulchral  urns. 
Few  Frenchmen  of  this  evil  have  complain'd  ; 
It  seems  as  if  we  Britons  were  ordain'd, 
By  way  of  wholesome  curb  upon  our  pride, 
To  fear  each  other,  fearing  none  beside. 
The  cause  perhaps  inquiry  may  descry, 
Self-searching  with  an  introverted  eye, 
Conceal'd  within  an  unsuspected  part, 
The  vainest  corner  of  our  own  vain  heart: 
For  ever  aiming  at  the^vorld's  esteem, 
Our  self-importance  ruins  its  own  scheme ; 
In  other  eyes  our  talents  rarely  shown, 
Become  at  length  so  splendid  in  our  own, 
We  dare  not  risk  them  into  public  view, 
Lest  they  miscarry  of  what  seems  their  due. 
True  modesty  is  a  discerning  grace, 
And  only  blushes  in  the  proper  place ; 
But  counterfeit  is  blind,  and  sculks  through  fear, 

iC 


98  CONVERSATION. 

Where  'tis  a  shame  to  be  asham'd  t'appear: 
Humility  the  parent  of  the  first, 
The  last  by  vanity  produc'd  and  nurs'd. 
The  circle  form'd,  we  sit  in  silent  state, 
Like  figures  drawn  upon  a  dial-plate ; 
Yes  ma'am,  and  no  ma'am,  utter'd  softly  show, 
Ev'ry  five  minutes  how  the  minutes  go; 
Each  individual,  sufTring  a  constraint 
Poetry  may,  but  colours  cannot  paint; 
As  if  in  close  committe  on  the  sky, 
Reports  it  hot  or  cold,  or  wet  or  dry  ; 
And  finds  a  changing  clime  a  happy  source 
Of  wise  reflection,  and  well  tim'd  discourse. 
We  next  inquire,  but  softly  and  by  stealth, 
Like  conservators  of  the  public  health, 
Of  epidemic  throats,  if  such  there  are, 
And  coughs  and  rheums,  and  phthisic,  and  catarrh. 
Tli at  theme  exhausted,  a  wide  chasm  ensues, 
Fill'd  up  at  last  with  interesting  news, - 
Who  danc'd  with  whom,  and  who  are  like  to  wed, 
And  who  is  hang'd,  and  who  is  brought  to  bed: 
But  fear  to  call  a  more  important  cause, 
As  if  t'were  treason  against  English  laws. 
The  visit  paid,  with  ecstasy  we  come, 
As  from  a  sev'n  years  transportation,  home, 
And  there  resume  an  unembarrass'd  brow, 
Recov'ring  what  we  lost  we  know  not  how, 
The  faculties,  that  seem'd  reduc'J  to  nought, 
Expression  and  the  privilege  of  thought. 
The  reeking,  roaring  hereof  the  chase, 
!  give  him  over  as  a   "esperate  case. 
Physicians  write  in  Iiopes  to  work  a  cure, 
Never^,  if  honest  ones,  when  death  is  sure; 
And  though  the  fox  he  follows  may  be  tam'd, 
A  mere  fox-foll'wer  never  is  reclaim'd. 
Some  farrier  should  prescribe  'uis  proper  course, 
Whose  only  fit  companion  is  his  horse  ; 
Or' if,  deserving  of  a  better  doom, 
The  noble  beast  judge  otherwise,  his  groom. 
Yet  e'en  the  rogue  that  serves  him,  though  he  stand, 
To  take  his  honor's  orders,  cap  in  hand, 
Prefers  his  fellow-grooms  with  much  good  sense, 
Their  skill  a  ( 'uti,  his  master's  a  pretence. 
If  neither  hors^  nor  groom  affect  the  squire, 
Where  can  at  last  his  jockeyship  retire? 
O  to  the  club,  the  scene  of  savage  joys, 
The  school  of  coarse  good  fellowship  and  noise; 
There,  in  the  sweet  society  of  those, 
Whose  friendship  from  his  boyish  years  he  chose, 


CONVERSATION.  99 

Let  him  improve  his  talent  if  he  can, 
Till  none  but  beasts  acknowledge  him  a  man. 
Man's  heart  had  been  impenetrably  seal'd, 
Like  theirs  that  cleave  *he  flood  or  graze  the  field, 
Had  not  his  Maker's  aL -bestowing  hand 
Giv'n  him  a  soul,  and  bade  him  understand ; 
The  reas'ning  pow'r  vouchsafd  of  course  inferr'd 
The  pow'r  to  clothe  that  reason  with  his  word  ; 
For  all  is  perfect,  that  God  works  on  earth, 
And  he,  that  gives  conception,  aids  the  birth. 
If  this  be  plain,  'tis  plainly  understood, 
What  uses  of  his  boon  the  Giver  would. 
The  Mind,  dispatch'd  upon  her  busy  toil,  . 

Should  range  where  Providence  has  bless'd  the  soil; 
Visiting  ev'ry  flow'r  with  labour  meet, 
And  gath'ring  all  her  treasures  sweet  by  sweet, 
She  should  imbue  the  tongue  with  what  she  sips, 
And  shed  the  balmy  blessing  on  the  lips, 
That  good  diffus'd  may  more  abundant  grow, 
And  speech  may  praise  the  pow'r  that  bids  it  flow. 
Will  the  sweet  warbler  of  the  livelong  night, 
That  fills  the  list'ning  lover  with  delight, 
Forget  his  harmony,  with  rapture  heard, 
'Bo  learn  the  twitt'ring  of  a  meaner  bird  ? 
Or  make  the  parrot's  mimicry  his  choice, 
That  odious  libel  on  a  human  voice  ? 
No — Nature,  un sophisticate  by  man, 
Starts  not  aside  from  her  Creator's  plan; 
The  melody,  that  was  at  first  design'd 
To  cheer  the  rude  forefathers  of  mankind, 
Is  note  for  note  deliver'd  in  our  ears, 
In  the  last  scene  of  her  six  thousand  years. 
Yet  Fashion,  leader  of  a  chatt'ring  train, 
Whom  man,  for  his  own  hurt,  permits  to  reign, 
Who  shifts  and  changes  all  things  but  his  shape, 
And  would  degrade  her  vot'ry  to  an  ape, 
The  fruitful  parent  of  abuse  and  wrong, 
Holds  a  usurp'd  dominion  o'er  his  tongue  ; 
There  sits  and  prompts  him  with  his  own  disgrace, 
Prescribes  the  then.e,  the  tone,  and  the  grimace, 
And,  when  accomplish'd  in  her  wayward  school, 
Calls  gentleman  whom  she  has  made  a  fool. 
'Tis  an  unalterable  fix'd  decree, 
That  none  could  frame  or  ratify  but  she, 
That  heav'n  and  hell,  and  righteousness  and  sin, 
Snares  in  his  path,  and  foes  that  lurk  within, 
God  and  his  attributes  (a  field  of  day 
Where  'tis  an  angel's  happiness  to  stray,) 
Fruirs  of  his  love,  and  wonders  of  his  might, 


100  CONVERSATION. 

Be  never  nam'd  in  ears  esteem'd  polite, 

That  he  who  dares,  when  she  forbids,  be  graYO, 

Shall  stand  proscrib'd,  a  madman  or  a  knave, 

A  close  designer  not  to  be  believ'd, 

Or,  if  excus'd  that  charge,  at  least  deceiv'd. 

Oh  folly  worthy  of  the  nurses  lap, 

Give  it  the  breast,  or  stop  its  mouth  with  pap! 

Is  it  incredible,  or  can  it  seem, 

A  dream  to  any,  except  those  that  dream, 

That  man  should  love  his  Maker,  and  that  fire, 

Warming  his  heart,  should  at  his  lips  transpire  ? 

Know  then,  and  modesty  let  fall  your  eyes, 

And  veil  your  daring  crest  that  braves  the  skies  ; 

That  air  of  insolence  affronts  your  God, 

You  need  his  pardon,  and  provoke  his  rod : 

Now,  in  a  posture  that  becomes  you  more 

Th;in  that  heroic  strut  assum'd  before, 

Know,  your  arrears  with  ev'ry  hour  accrue 

For  mercy  shown,  while  wrath  is  justly  due. 

The  time  is  short,  and  there  are  souls  on  earth, 

Though  future  pain  may  serve  for  present  mirth, 

Acquainted  with  the  woes,  that  fear  or  shame, 

By  Fashion  taught,  forbade  them  once  to  name, 

And,  having  felt  the  pangs  you  deem  a  jest, 

Have  prov'd  them  truths  too  big  to  be  express'd. 

Go  seek  on  revelation's  hallow'd  ground, 

Sure  to  succeed,  the  remedy  they  found  ; 

Touch'd  by  that  pow'r  that  you  have  dar'd  to  mock, 

That  makes  seas  stable,  and  dissolves  the  rock, 

Your  heart  shall  yield  a  life-renewing  stream, 

That  fools,  as  you  have  done,  shall  call  a  dream. 

It  happen'd  on  a  solemn  eventide, 
Soon  after  He  that  was  our  Surety  died, 
Two  bosom  friends,  each  pensively  inclin'd, 
The  scene  of  all  those  sorrows  left  behind, 
Sought  their  own  village,  busied  as  they  went 
In  musings  worthy  of  the  great  event: 
They  spake  of  him  they  lov'd,  of  him  whose  life, 
Though  blameless,  had  incurr'd  perpetual  strife, 
Whose  deeds  had  left,  in  spite  of  hostile  arts, 
A  deep  memorial  graven  on  their  hearts. 
The  recollection,  like  a  vein  of  ore, 
The  farther  trac'd,  enrich'd  them  still  the  more ; 
They  thought  him,  and  they  justly  thought  him,  one 
Sent  to  do  more  than  he  appear'd  t'  have  done; 
T'  exalt  a  people,  and  to  place  them  high 
Above  all  else,  and  wonder'd  he  should  die. 
Ere  yet  they  brought  their  journey  to  an  end, 
A  stranger  join'd  them,  coiu-teous  as  a  friend, 


CONVERSATION.  101 

And  ask'd  them,  with  a  kind,  engaging  air, 
What  their  affliction  was,  and  begg'd  a  share. 
Inform'd,  he  gather'd  up  the  broken  thread, 
And,  truth  and  wisdom  gracing  all  he  said, 
Explain'd,  illustrated,  and  search'd  so  well 
The  tender  theme,  on  which  they  chose  to  dwell, 
That,  reaching  home,  The  night,  they  said,  is  near. 
We  must  not  now  be  parted,  sojouin  here — 
The  new  acquaintance  soon  become  a  guest, 
And,  made  so  welcome  at  their  simple  feast, 
He  bless'd  the  bread,  but  vanish'd  at  the  word, 
And  left  them  both  exclaiming,  'Twas  the  Loid! 
Did  not  our  hearts  feel  all  he  deign 'd  to  s?  j  ? 
Did  not  they  burn  within  us  by  the  way  ? 

Now  theirs  was  converse,  such  as  it  behoves 
Man  to  maintain,  and  such  as  God  approves: 
Their  views,  indeed,  were  indistinct  and  Him, 
But  yet  successful,  being  aim'd  at  him. 
Christ  and  his  character  their  o^lv  scope, 

tf 

Their  object,  and  their  subjec*    ar"4  their  hopef 
They  felt  what  it  became  theu.  n.uch  to  feel, 
And,  wanting  him  to  loose  the  sacred  seal, 
Found  him  as  prompt,  as  their  desire  was  true, 
To  spread  the  newborn  glories  in  their  view. 
Well — what  are  ages  and  the  lapse  of  time, 
Match'd  against  truths,  as  lasting  as  sublime; 
Can  length  of  years  on  God  himself  exact  ? 
Or  make  that  fiction,  which  was  once  a  fact  1 
No — marble  and  recording  brass  decay, 
And,  like  the  graver's  mem'ry,  pass  away; 
The  works  of  man  inherit,  as  is  just, 
Their  author's  frailty,  and  return  to  dust: 
But  truth  divine  for  ever  stands  secure, 
Its  head  is  guarded,  as  its  base  is  sure; 
Fix'd  in  the  rolling  flood  of  endless  years, 
The  pillar  of  th'eternal  plan  appears, 
The  raving  storm  and  dashing  wave  defies, 
Built  by  that  architect  who  built  the  skies. 
Hearts  may  be  found,  that  harbour  at  this  hour 
That  love  of  Christ,  and  all  its  quick'ning  pow'r 
And  lips  unstain'd  by  folly  or  by  strife, 
Whose  wisdom,  drawn  from  the  deep  well  of  life, 
Tastes  of  its  healthful  origin,  and  flows 
A  Jordan  for  th'ablution  of  our  woes. 
O  days  of  heav'n,  and  nights  of  equal  praise, 
Serene  and  peaceful  as  those  heav'nly  days, 
When  souls  drawn  upwards  in  communion  sweet, 
Enjoy  the  stillness  of  some  close  retreat, 
Discourse,  as  it'  releas'd  arid  safe  at  borne, 

K2 


102  CONVERSATION. 

Of  dangers  past,  and  wonders  yet  to  come, 
And  spread  the  sacred  treasures  of  the  breast 
Upon  the  lap  of  covenanted  Rest. 

What,  always  dreaming  over  heav'nly  things, 
Like  angel-heads  in  stone  with  pigeon-wings? 
Canting  and  whining  out  all  day  the  word, 
And  half  the  night?   Fanatic  and  ahsurd  ! 
Mine  be  the  friend  less  frequent  in  his  pray'rs, 
Who  makes  no  bustle  with  his  soul's  affairs, 
Whose  wit  can  brighten  up  a  wintry  day, 
And  chase  the  splenetic  dull  hours  away ; 
Content  on  earth  in  earthly  things  to  shine, 
Who  waits  for  heav'n  ere  he  becomes  divine, 
Leaves  saints  t'enjoy  those  altitudes  they  teach, 
And  plucks  the  fruit  plac'd  more  within  his  reach. 

Well  spoken,  advocate  of  sin  and  shame, 
Known  by  thy  bleating,  Ignorance  thy  name. 
Is  sparkling  wit  the  World's  exclusive  right? 
The  fix'd  fee-simple  of  the  vain  and  light  ? 
Can  hopes  of  heav'n,  bright  prospects  of  an  hour, 
That  come  to  waft  us  out  of  Sorrow's  pow'r, 
Obscure  or  quench  a  faculty,  that  finds 
Its  happiest  soil  in  the  serenest  minds  ? 
Religion  curbs  indeed  its  wanton  play, 
And  brings  the  trifler  under  rig'rous  sway, 
But  gives  it  usefulness  unknown  before, 
And,  purifying,  makes  it  shine  the  more. 
A  Christian's  wit  is  inoffensive  light, 
A  beam  that  aids,  but  never  grieves  the  sight; 
Vig'rous  in  age  as  in  the  flush  of  youth, 
'Tis  always  active  on  the  side  of  truth  ; 
Temp'rance  and  peace  insure  its  healthful  state, 
And  make  it  biightest  at  its  latest  date. 
Oh  I  have  seen  (nor  hope  perhaps  in  vain, 
Ere  life  go  down,  to  see  such  sights  again) 
A  vet'ran  warrior  in  the  Christian  field, 
Who  never  saw  the  sword  he  could  not  wield  ; 
Grave  without  dulness,  learned  without  pride, 
Exact,  yet  not  precise,  though  meek,  keen-ey'd ; 
A  man  that  would  have  foil'd  at  their  own  play 
A  dozen  would-be's  of  the  modern  day  ; 
Who,  when  occasion  justified  its  use, 
Had  wit  as  bright  as  rea.iy  to  produce, 
Could  fetch  from  records  of  an  earlier  age, 
Or  from  philosophy's  enlighten'd  page, 
His  rich  materials,  and  regale  your  ear 
With  strains  it  was  a  privilege  to  hear: 
Yet,  above  all,  his  luxury  is  supreme, 
And  his  chief  glory,  was  the  Gospel  theme  ; 


CONVERSATION  103 

There  he  was  copious  as  old  Greece  or  Rome, 
His  happy  eloquence  seem'd  there  at  home, 
Ambitious  not  to  shine  or  to  excel, 
But  to  treat  justly  what  he  lov'd  so  well. 

It  moves  me  more  perhaps  than  i'ully  ought, 
When  some  green  heads,  as  void  of  wit  as  thought, 
Suppose  t/n'WfU'li-cji  monopolists  of  sense, 
And  wiser  men's  ability  pretence. 
Though  time  will  w~ar  us,  and  we  must  grow  old, 
Such  men  are  noc  forgot  as  soon  as  cold  ; 
Their  fragrant  mem'ry  will  outlast  their  tomb, 
Embalm'd  for  ever  in  its  own  perfume. 
And  to  say  truth,  though  in  its  early  prime, 
And  when  unstain'd  with  any  grosser  crime, 
Youth  has  a  sprightliuess  and  lire  to  boast, 
That  in  the  valley  of  decline  are  lost, 
And  Virtue  with  peculiar  charms  appears, 
Crown'd  with  the  garland  of  life's  blooming  years  ; 
Yet  Age,  by  long  experience  well  inform 'd, 
Well  read,  well  temper'd,  with  religion  warm'd, 
That  fire  abated,  which  impels  rash  Youth, 
Proud  of  his  speed,  to    overshoot  the  truth, 
As  time  improves  the  grape's  authentic  juice, 
Mellows  and  makes  the  speech  more  fit  for  use, 
And  claims  a  rev'rence  in  its  short'ning  day, 
That  'tis  an  honor  and  a  joy  to  pay. 
The  fruits  of  Age,  less  fair,  are  yet  more  sound, 
Than  those  a  brighter  season  pours  around; 
And,  like  the  stores  autumnal  suns  mature, 
Through  wintry  rigors  unimpair'd  endure. 
\Yhat  is  fanatic  frenzy,  scorn' d  so  much, 
And  dreaded  more  than  a  contagious  touch  ? 
I  grant  it  dang'rous,  and  approve  your  fear, 
That  fire  is  catching  if  you  draw  too  near  ; 
But  sage  observers  oft  mistake  the  flame, 
And  give  true  piety  that  odious  name. 
To  tremble  (as  the  creature  of  an  hour 
Ought  at  the  view  of  an  almighty  pow'r) 
Before  his  presence,  at  whose  awful  throne 
All  tremble  in  all  worlds,  except  our  own, 
To  supplicate  his  mercy,  love  his  ways, 
And  prize  them  above  pleasure,  wealth,  or  praise. 
Though  common  sense,  allow 'd  a  casting  voice, 
And  free  from  bias,  must  approve  the  choice, 
Convicts  a  man  fanatic  in  th'extreme, 
And  wild  as  madness  in  the  world's  esteem. 
But  that  disease,  when  soberly  defin'd, 
Is  the  false  fire  of  an  o'eihe>:ted  mind; 
It  views  the  truth  with  a  distorted  eye, 


101  CONVERSATION 

And  either  warps  or  lays  it  useless  by; 
'Tis  narrow,  selfish,  arrogant,  and  draws 
Its  sordid  nourishment  from  man's  applause; 
And  while  at  heart  sin  unrelinquish'd  lies, 
Presumes  itself  chief  fa v' rite  of  the  skies. 
'Tis  such  a  light  as  putrefaction  breeds 
In  fly-blow'n  flesh,  whereon  the  maggot  feeds, 
Shines  in  the  davk,  but,  usher'd  into  day, 
The  stench  remains,  the  lustre  dies  away. 

True  bliss,  if  man  may  reach  it,  is  compos'd 
Of  hearts  in  union  mutually  disclos'd  ; 
And,  farewell  else  all  hope  of  pure  delight, 
Those  hearts  should  be  reclaim'd,  renew'd,  upright. 
Bad  men,  profaning  friendship's  hallow'd  name, 
Form,  in  its  stead,  a  covenant  of  shame, 
A  dark  confed'racy  against  the  laws 
Of  virtue,  and  religion's  glorious  cause  : 
They  build  each  other  up  with  dreadful  skill, 
As  bastions  set  point  blank  against  God's  will; 
Enlarge  and  fortify  the  dread  redoubt, 
Deeply  resolved  to  shut  a  Saviour  out  ; 
Call  legions  up  from  hell  to  back  the  deed  ; 
And,  curs'd  with  conquest,  finally  succeed. 
But  souls,  that  carry  on  a  blest  exchange 
Of  joys,  they  meet  with  in  their  heav'nly  range, 
And  with  a  fearless  confidence  make  known 
The  sorrows,  sympathy  esteems  its  own, 
Daily  derive  increasing  light  and  force 
From  such  communion  in  their  pleasant  course, 
Feel  less  the  journey's  roughness  and  its  length, 
Aleet  their  opposers  with  united  strength, 
And,  one  in  heart,  in  int'rest,  and  design, 
Gird  up  each  other  to  the  race  divine. 

But  Conversation,  choose  what  theme  we  may, 
And  chiefly  when  religion  leads  the  way, 
Should  flow,  like  waters  after  summer  show'rs, 
Not  as  if  rais'd  by  mere  mechanic  pow'rs. 
The  Christian,  in  whose  soul,  though  now  distress'd, 
Lives  the  dear  thoughts,  of  joys  he  once  possess'd. 
When  all  his  glowing  language  issu'd  forth 
With  God's  deep  stamp  upon  its  current  worth 
Will  speak  without  disguise,  and  must  impart, 
Sad  as  it  is,  his  undissembling  heart, 
Abhors  constraint,  and  dares  not  feign  a  zeal, 
Or  seem  to  boast  a  fire  he  does  not  feel. 
The  song  of  Zion  is  a  tasteless  thing, 
Unless,  when  rising  on  a  joyful  wing, 
The  soul  can  mix  with  the  celestial  bands, 
And  give  the  strain  the  compass  it  demands. 


If 


CONVERSATION.  105 

Strange  tidings  these  to  tell  a  world,  who  treat 
All  but  their  own  experience  as  deceit ! 
Will  they  believe,  though  credulous  enough 
To  swallow  much  upon  much  weaker  proof, 
That  there  are  blest  inhabitants  of  earth, 
Partakers  of  a  new  ethereal  birth, 
Their  hopes,  desires,  and  purposes  estrang'd 
From  things  terrestial,  and  divinely  chang'd, 
Their  very  language,  of  a  kind,  that  speaks 
The  soul's  sure  int'rest  in  the  good  she  seeks, 
Who  deal  with  Scripture,  its  importance  felt, 
As  Tully  with  philosophy  once  dealt, 
And  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  night, 
And  through  the  scenes  of  toil-renewing  light, 
The  social  walk,  or  solitary  ride, 
Keep  still  the  dear  companion  at  their  side  ? 
No — shame  upon  a  self-disgracing  age, 
God's  work  may  serve  an  ape  upon  a  stage 
With  such  a  jest,  as  fill'd  with  hellish  glee 
Certain  invisibles  as  shrewd  as  he  ; 
But  veneration  or  respect  finds  none, 
Save  from  the  subjects  of  that  work  alone. 
The  World  grown  old  her  deep  discernment  shows, 
Claps  spectacles  on  her  sagacious  nose, 
Peruses  closely  the  true  Christian's  face, 
And  finds  it  a  mere  mask  of  sly  grimace; 
Usurps  God's  ofiice,  lays  his  bosom  bare, 
Vnd  rinds  hypocrisy  close  lurking  there ; 
And,  serving  God  herself  through  mere  constraint, 
Concludes  his  unfeign'd  love  of  him  a  feint. 
And  yet,  God  knows,  look  human  nature  through, 
(And  in  due  time  the  World  shall  know  it  too) 
That  since  the  flow'rs  of  Eden  felt  the  blast, 
That  after  man's  defection  laid  all  waste, 
Sincerity  tow'rds  the  heart-searching  God 
Has  made  the  new-born  creature  her  abode, 
Nor  shall  be  found  in  unregen'rate  souls, 
Till  the  last  fire  burn  all  between  the  poles. 
Sincerity  !   why  'tis  his  only  pride, 
Weak  and  imperfect  in  all  grace  beside, 
He  knows  that  God  demands  his  heart  entire, 
And  gives  him  all  his  just  demands  require. 
Without  it  his  pretensions  were  as  vain, 
As  having  it  he  dei-ms  the  World's  disdain  ; 
That  great  delect  would  cost  him  not  alone 
Man's  favorable  judgment,  but  his  own  ; 
]\\>  birthright  shaken,  ana  no  longer  clear, 
Than  while  his  conduct  proves  his  heart  sincere* 
Retort  the  charge,  and  let  the  \\  oiki  be  told 


?06  CONVERSATION. 

She  boasts  a  confidence  she  does  not  hold  , 

That,  conscious  of  her  crimes,  she  feels  instead 

\  cold  misgiving,  and  a  killing  dread: 

'I  hat  while  in  health  the  ground  of  her  support 

Is  madly  to  forget  that  life  is  short ; 

That  sick  she  trembles,  knowing  she  must  die, 

Her  hope  presumption,  ana  her  faiih  a  lie  ; 

That  while  she  dotes,  and  dreams  that  she  believes, 

She  mocks  her  Maker,  and  herseK  Deceives, 

Her  utmost  reach,  historical  assen., 

The  doctrines  warp'd  to  what  they  never  meant ; 

f  hat  truth  itsdf  is  in  her  head  as  dull 

And  useless  ;:s  a  c  ndle  in  a  scull, 

And  all  her  ,ove  of  God  a  groundless  claim, 

A  tvick  upjn  the  canvass,  painted  flame. 

Tell  bT  again,  the  sneer  upon  her  face. 

And  t.l  her  censures  of  the  woik  of  grace, 

Are  insincere,  meant  only  to  conceal 

A  dread  she  would  not,  yet  is  forc'd  to  feel ; 

That  in  her  heart  the  Christian  she  reveres, 

And  while  she  seems  to  scorn  him,  only  fears, 

A  poet  does  not  work  by  square  or  line, 
As  smiths  and  joiners  perfect  a  design  ; 
At  least  we  moderns,  our  attention  less, 
Beyond  th'example  of  our  sires  digress, 
And  claim  a  right  to  scamper  and  run  wide, 
Wherever  chance,  caprice,  or  fancy  guide. 
The  World  and  I  fortuitously  met ; 
I  ow'd  r  trifle,  and  have  paid  the  debt ; 
She  did  no    .vrong    I  recompens'd  the  deed, 
And,  having  struck  the  balance,  now  proceed. 
Perhaps,  however,  as  some  years  have  pass'd, 
Since  she  and  I  convers'd  together  last, 
And  I  have  Hv'd  r  c'.use  in  rural  shades, 
Which  seldom  a  distinct  report  pervades, 
Great  changes  and  new  manners  have  occurr'd, 
And  blest  reforms,  that  I  have  never  heard, 
And  she  may  now  be  as  discreet  and  wise, 
As  once  absurd  in  all  discerning  eyes. 
Sobriety  perhaps  may  now  be  found, 
Where  once  Intoxication  press'd  the  ground; 
The  subtle  and  injurious  may  be  just. 
And  he  grown  chaste,  that  was  the  slave  of  lust ; 
Arts  once  esteem' d  may  be  with  shame  disrniss'd  } 
Charity  may  relax  the  miser's  fist ; 
The  gamester  may  have  cast  his  cards  away, 
Forgot  to  curse,  and  only  kneel  to  pray. 
It  has  indeed  been  told  me  (with  what  weight, 
How  credibly,  'tis  hard  for  me  to  state) 


CONVERSATION.  107 

That  fables  old,  that  seem'd  for  ever  mute, 

Reviv'd  are  hast'ning  into  fresh  repute, 

And  gods  and  goddesses,  discarded  long 

Like  useless  lumber,  or  a  stroller's  song, 

Are  bringing  into  vogue  their  heathen  train, 

And  Jupiter  bids  fair  to  rule  again  ; 

That  certain  feasts  are  instituted  now, 

Where  Venus  hears  the  lover's  tender  vow  ; 

That  all  Olympus  through  the  country  roves, 

To  consecrate  our  few  remaining  groves, 

And  Echo  learns  politely  to  repeat 

The  praise  of  names  for  ages  obsolete  : 

That  having  prov'd  the  weakness,  it  should  seem, 

Of  revelation's  ineffectual  beam, 

To  bring  the  passions  under  sober  sway, 

And  give  the  moral  springs  their  proper  play, 

They  mean  to  try  what  may  at  last  be  done, 

By  stout  substantial  gods  of  wood  and  stone, 

And  whether  Roman  rites  may  not  produce 

The  virtues  of  old  Rome  for  English  use. 

May  such  success  attend  the  pious  plan, 

May  Mercury  once  more  embellish  man, 

Grace  him  again  with  long-forgotten  arts, 

Reclaim  his  taste,  and  brighten  up  his  parts, 

Make  him  athletic,  as  in  days  of  old, 

Learn'd  at  the  bar,  in  the  palaestra  bold, 

Divest  the  rougher  sex  of  female  airs, 
And  teach  the  softer  not  to  copy  theirs: 
The  change  shall  please,  nor  shall  it  matter  aught 
Who  works  the  wonder,  if  it  be  but  wrought. 
'Tis  time,  however,  if  the  case  stands  thus, 
For  us  plain  folks,  and  all  who  side  with  us, 
To  build  our  altar,  confident  and  bold, 
And  say  as  stern  Elijah  said  of  old, 
The  strife  now  stands  upon  a  fair  award, 
If  Israel's  Lord  be  God,  then  serve  the  Lord: 
If  he  be  silent,  faith  is  all  a  whim, 
Then  Baal  is  the  God,  mid  worship  him. 
Digression  is  so  much  in  modern  use, 
Thought  is  so  rare,  and  fancy  so  profuse, 
Some  never  seem  so  wide  of  their  intent, 
As  when  returning  to  the  theme  they  meant; 
As  mendicants,  whose  business  is  to  roam, 
Make  ev'ry  parish  but  their  own  their  home. 
Though  such  continual  zigzags  in  a  book, 
Such  drunken  reelings  have  an  awkward  look, 
And  I  h;.d  rather  creep  to  what  is  true> 
Than  rove  and  stagger  with  no  mark  in  view; 
Yet  to  consult  a  little,  seem'd  no  crime, 


108  CONVERSATION. 

The  freakish  humor  of  the  present  time : 

But  now  to  gather  up  what  seems  dispersM, 

And  touch  the  subject  I  design' d  at  first, 

May  prove,  though  much  beside  the  rules  of  art. 

Best  for  the  public,  and  my  wisest  part. 

And  first,  let  no  man  charge  me,  that  I  mean 

To  clothe  in  sable  ev'ry  social  scene, 

And  give  good  company  a  face  severe, 

As  if  they  met  around  a  father's  bier  ; 

For  tell  some  men,  that  pleasure  all  their  bent, 

And  laughter  all  their  work,  is  life  misspent, 

Their  wisdom  bursts  into  this  sage  reply, 

Then  mirth  is  sin,  and  we  should  always  cry. 

To  find  the  medium  asks  some  share  of  wit, 

And  therefore  'tis  a  mark  fools  never  hit. 

But  though  life's  valley  be  a  vale  of  tears, 

A  brighter  scene  beyond  that  vale  appears, 

Whose  glory,  with  a  light  that  never  fades, 

Shoots  between  scatter'd  rocks  and  op'ning  shades, 

And,  while  it  shows  the  land  the  soul  desires, 

The  language  of  the  land  she  seeks  inspires. 

Thus  touch'd,  the  tongue  receives  a  sacred  cure 

Of  all  that  was  absurd,  profane,  impure  ; 

Held  within  modest  bounds,  the  tide  of  speech 

Pursues  the  course  that  Truth  and  Nature  teach  ; 

No  longer  labours  merely  to  produce 

The  pomp  of  sound,  or  tinkle  without  use  : 

Where'er  it  winds,  the  salutary  stream, 

Sprightly  and  fresh,  enriches  ev'ry  theme, 

While  all  the  happy  man  possess'd  before, 

The  gift  of  nature,  or  the  classic  store, 

Is  made  subservient  to  the  grand  <U  sign, 

For  which  Heav'n  form'd  the  faculty  divine, 

So,  should  an  idiot,  while  at  large  he  strays, 

Find  the  sweet  lyre,  on  which  an  artist  plays, 

With  rash  and  awkward  force  the  chords  he  shakes, 

And  grins  with  wonder  at  the  jar  he  makes ; 

But  let  the  wise  and  well-instructed  hand 

Once  take  the  shell  beneath  his  just  command, 

In  gentle  sound  it  seems  as  it  complain'd 

Of  the  rude  injuries  it  late  sustain'd, 

Till  tun'd  at  length  to  some  immortal  song, 

It  sounds  Jehovah's  name,  and  pours  his  praise  along. 


RETIREMENT. 


studiis  florens  ignobilis  otl. 

Virj.  Gear.  lib.  4. 


Hackney'd  in  business,  wearied  at  that  oar, 
Which  thousands,  once  fast  chain'd  to,  quit  no  more, 
But  which,  when  life  at  ebb  runs  weak  and  low, 
All  wish,  or  seem  to  wish,  they  could  forego  ; 
The  statesman,  lawyer,  merchant,  man  of  trade, 
Pants  for  the  refuge  of  some  rural  shade, 
Where,  all  his  long  anxieties  forgot 
Amid  the  charms  of  a  sequester'd  spot, 
Or  recollected  only  to  gild  o'er, 
And  add  a  smile  to  what  was  sweet  before, 
He  may  possess  the  joys  lie  thinks  he  sees, 
Lay  his  old  age  upon  the  lap  of  Ease, 
Improve  the  remnant  of  his  wasted  span, 
And,  having  liv'd  a  trifler,  die  a  man. 
Thus  Conscience  pleads  her  cause  within  the  breast, 
Though  long  rebell'd  against,  not  yet  suppress'd, 
And  calls  a  creature  form'd  for  God  alone, 
For  Heav'ns  high  purposes,  and  not  his  own, 
Calls  him  away  from  selfish  ends  and  aims, 
From  what  debilitates  and  what  inflames, 
From  cities  humming  with  a  restless  crowd, 
Sordid  as  active,  ignorant  as  loud, 
Whose  highest  praise  is  that  they  live  in  yam, 
The  dupes  of  pleasure,  or  the  slaves  of  gain, 
Where  works  of  man  are  cluster' d  close  around, 
And  works  of  God  are  hardly  to  be  found, 
To  regions  where,  in  spite  of  sin  and  woe, 
Traces  of  Eden  are  still  seen  below, 
Where  mountain,  river,  forest,  field,  and  grove, 
Remind  him  of  his  Maker's  pow'r  and  love. 
"Tis  well  if,  look'd  for  at  so  late  a  day, 
In  the  last  scene  of  such  a  senseless  play, 
True  wisdom  will  attend  his  feeble  call, 
And  grace  his  action  ere  the  curtain  fall. 


RETIREMENT. 


Souls,  that  have  long  despis'd  their  heav'nly  birth, 
Their  wishes  all  impregnated  with  earth, 
For  threescore  years  employ  'd  with  ceaseless  care 
In  catching  smoke  and  feeding  upon  air, 
Conversant  only  with  the  ways  of  men, 
Rarely  redeem  the  short  remaining  ten. 
Invet'rate  habits  choke  th'  unfruitful  heart, 
Their  fibres  penetrate  its  tfiuPrest  part, 
And,  draining  its  nutritious  pow'rs  to  feed 
Their  n  xious  g  owth,  starve  ev'ry  better  seed. 

Happy,  it'  full  of  firys—  but  happier  far, 
If,  ere  we  yet  discern  life's  ev'rnng  star, 
Sick  of  the  service  of  a  world,  that  feeds 
Its  p  itient  drudges  with  dry  chaff  and  weeds, 
We  can  escape  from  Custom's  idiot  sway, 
To  se.-ve  the  Sovereign  we  were  born  t'obey. 
Then  sweet  to  muse  upon  his  skill  display'  d 
(Infinite  skill)  in  all  that  he  has  made! 
To  trace  in  Nature's  most  minute  design 
The  signature  and  stamp  of  pow'r  divine, 
Contrivance  intricate,  express'd  with  ease, 
Where  unassisted  sight  no  beauty  sees, 
The  shapely  limb  and  lubricated  joint 
Within  the  small  dimensions  of  a  point, 
Muscle  and  nerve  miraculously  spun, 
His  mighty  work,  wl»o  speaks,  and  it  is  done, 
T-i1  invisible  in  things  scarce  seen  reveal'd, 
To  whom  an  atom  is  an  ample  field  ; 
To  wonder  at  a  thousand  insect  forms, 
These  hatch'd,  and  those  resuscitaced  worms, 
New  life  ordain'd  and  brighter  scenes  to  share, 
Once  prone  on  earth,  now  buoyant  upon  air, 
Whose  shape  would  make  them,  had  they  bulk  and   cue, 
More  hideous  foes  than  fancy  can  devise; 
With  helmet-heads  and  dragon-scales  adorn'  d, 
The  mighty  myriads,  now  securely  scorn'd, 
Would  mock  the  majesty  of  man's  high  birth, 
Despise  his  bulwarks,  and  unpeople  earth. 
Then  with  a  glance  of  fancy  to  survey, 
Far  as  the  faculty  can  stretch  away, 
Ten  thousand  rivers  pour'd  at  his  command 
!•'  om  urns,  that  never  fail,  through  ev'ry  land; 
These  like  ;i  deluge  with  impetuous  force, 
Those  winding  modestly  a  silent  course  ; 
The  cloud  -surmounting  Alps,  the  fruitful  vales  j 
Seas,  on  which  ev'ry  nation  spreads  her  sails; 
The  sun,  a  world  whence  o-:hei-  worlds  drink  light, 
The  crescent  moon,  the  diadem  of  night  ; 
Stars  couatless,  each  in  his  appointed  place, 


RETIREMENT.  1H 

Fast  anchor' d  in  the  deep  abyss  of  space — 

At  such  a  sight  to  catch  the  poet's  flame, 

And  with  a  rapture  like  his  own  exclaim, 

These  are  thy  glorious  works,  thou  sou  ce  of  good, 

How  dimly  seen,  h<>w  faintly  understood! 

Thine,  and  upheld  hy  thy  patemal  care, 

This  universal  frame,  thus  wondrous  fair; 
Thy  pow'r  divine,  arid  bounty  heyond  thought, 
Ador'd  and  prais'd  in  all  that  thou  hast  wrought. 

Ahsorh'd  in  t'.iat  immensity  I  see, 

1  shrink  abas'd,  and  yet  aspire  to  thee  ; 

Instruct  me,  guide  me  to  that  heav'nly  day, 

Thy  words  more  clearly  than  thy  works  display, 

That,  while  thy  truths  my  grosser  thoughts  refine, 

I  may  rese'.nble  thee,  and  call  thee  mine. 
O  blest  proficiency!   surpassing  all, 

That  men  erroneously  their  glory  call, 

The  recompense  that  arts  or  arms  can  yield, 

The  bar,  the  senate,  or  the  tented  field. 

Compar'd  with  this  sublim-ost  life  below, 

Ye  kings  and  rulers,  what  have  courts  to  show  ? 

Thus  studied,  us'd  and  consecrated  thus, 

On  earth  what  is,  seems  form'd  indeed  for  us: 

Not  as  the  plaything  of  a  fro  ward  child, 

Fretful  unless  diverted  and  beguil'd, 

Much  less  to  feed  and  fan  tne  fatal  tires 

Of  pride,  ambition,  cr  impure  desires, 

But  as  a  scale,  by  which  the  soul  ascendb 

From  mighty  means  to  more  important  ends, 

Securely,  though  by  steps  but  rarely  trod, 

Mounts  from  interior  beings  up  to  God, 
And  sees,  by  no  fallacious  light  or  dim, 
Earth  made  for  man,  and  man  himself  for  him. 
Not  that  I  mean  t'approve,  or  would  enforce, 
A  superstitious  and  monastic  course  : 
Truth  is  not  local,  God  alike  pervades 
And  tills  the  world  of  traffic  and  the  shades, 
And  may  be  fear'd  amidst  the  busiest  scenes, 
Or  scorn' d  where  business  never  intervenes. 
But  'tis  not  ea>y  with  a  mind  like  ours, 
Conscious  of  weakness  in  its  noblest  pow'rs, 
And  in  a  world  where,  other  ills  apart, 
The  roving  eye  misleads  the  careless  heart, 
';      limit  Thought,  by  nature  proi.e  to  stray 
Wherever  freakish  Fancy  points  the  way  ; 
To  bid  the  pleadings  of  Seif-love  be  still, 
Resign  our  ov\n  and  seek  our  Maker's  will; 
To  spread  the  page  of  Scripture,  and  compare 
Our  conduct  with  the  laws  engraven  there  ; 


112  PETIRF.MENT 

To  measure  all  that  passes  in  the  breast, 

Faithfully,  fairly,  by  that  sacred  testj 

To  dive  into  the  secret  deeps  within, 

To  spare  no  passion  and  no  fav'rite  sin, 

And  search  the  themes,  important  above  all, 

Ourselves,  and  our  recov'ry  from  our  fall. 

But  leisure,  silence,  and  a  mind  releas'd 

From  anxious  thoughts  how  wealth  may  be  increas'd, 

Hovv  to  secure,  in  some  propitious  hour, 

The  point  of  int'rest  or  the  post  of  pow'r, 

A  soul  serene,  and  equally  retir'd 

From  objects  too  much  dreaded  or  desir'd, 

Safe  from  the  cl.miors  of  perverse  dispute, 

At  least  are  friendly  to  the  great  pursuit. 

Op'ning  the  map  of  God's  extensive  plan, 
We  find  a  little  isle,  this  life  of  man  ; 
Eternity's  unknown  expanse  appears 
Circling  around  and  limiting  his  years. 
The  busy  race  examine  and  explore 
Each  creek  and  cavern  of  the  dang'rous  shore, 
With  care  collect  what  in  their  eyes  excels, 
Some  shining  pebbles,  and  some  wteds  and  shells; 
Thus  laden,  dream  that  they  are  rich  and  great, 
And  happiest  he  that  groans  beneath  his  weight. 
The  waves  o'ertake  them  in  their  serious  play, 
And  ev'ry  hour  sweeps  multitudes  away  ; 
They  shriek  and  sink,  survivors  start  and  weep, 
Pursue  their  sport,  and  follow  to  the  deep. 
A  few  forsake  the  throng  ;  with  lifted  eyes 
Ask  wealth  of  Heav'n,  and  gain  a  real  prize, 
Truth,  wisdom,  grace,  and  peace  like  that  above, 
Seal'd  with  his  signet  whom  they  serve  and  love; 
Scorn'd  by  the  rest,  with  patient  hope  they  wait 
A  kind  release  from  their  imperfect  state, 
And  unregretted  are  soon  snatch'd  away 
From  scenes  of  soirow  into  glorious  day. 

Nor  tiiese  alone  prefer  a  life  recluse, 
Who  seek  retirement  for  its  proper  use ; 
The  love  of  change,  that  lives  in  ev'ry  breast, 
Genius  and  temper,  and  desire  of  rest, 
Discordant  motives  in  one  centre  meet, 
And  each  inclines  its  vol'ry  to  retreat. 
Some  minds  by  nature  are  averse  to  noise, 
And  hate  the  tumult  half  the  world  enjoys, 
The  lure  of  av'rice,  or  the  pompous  prize, 
That  courts  display  before  ambitious  eyes  ; 
The  fruits  that  hang  on  pleasure's  rlovv'ry  stem, 
Whate'er  enchants  them,  are  no  snares  to  them. 
To  them  the  deep  recess  of  dusky  groves, 


RETIREMENT.  113 

Or  forest,  where  the  deer  securely  roves, 

The  f.,11  of  waters,  and  the  song  of  birds, 

And  hills  that  echo  to  the  distant  herds, 

Are  luxuries  excelling  all  the  glare 

Tne  world  can  boast   and  her  chief  fav'rites  share. 

With  eager  step,  and  carelessly  array' d, 

For  such  a  cause  the  poet  seeks  the  shade, 

From  all  he  sees  he  catches  new  delight, 

Pleas'd  Fancy  claps  her  pinions  at  the  sight, 

The  rising  or  the  setting  orb  of  day, 

The  clouds  that  flit,  or  slowly  float  away, 

Nature  in  all  the  various  shapes  she  wears, 

Frowning  in  storms,  or  breathing  gentle  airs ; 

The  snowy  robe  her  wintry  state  assumes, 

Her  summer  heats,  her  fruits,  and  her  perfumes ; 

All,  all  alike  transport  the  glowing  bard, 

Success  in  rhyme  his  glory  and  reward. 

O  Nature!    whose  Elysian  scenes  disclose 

His  bright  perfections,  at  whose  word  they  rose, 

Next  to  that  pow'r,  who  form'd  thee  and  sustains, 

Be  thou  the  great  inspirer  of  my  strains. 

Still,  as  1  touch  the  lyre,  do  thou  expand 

Thy  genuine  charms,  and  guide  an  artless  hand, 

That  1  mny  catch  a  tire  but  rarely  known, 

Give  useful  light,  though  I  should  miss  renown, 

And,  poring  on  thy  page,  whose  ev'ry  line 

Bears  proof  of  an  intelligence  divine, 

May  feel  a  heart  enrich'd  by  what  it  pays, 

That  builds  its  glory  on  its  Maker's  praise. 

Wo  to  the  man,  whose  wit  disclaims  its  use, 

Glitt'ring  in  vain,  or  only  to  seduce, 

Who  studies  nature  with  a  wanton  eye, 

Admires  the  work,  but  slips  the  lesson  by  ; 

His  hours  of  leisure  and  recess  employs 

In  drawing  pictures  of  forbidden  joys, 

Retires  to  blazon  his  own  worthless  name, 

Or  shoot  the  careless  with  a  surer  aim. 

The  lover  too  shuns  business  and  alarms, 
Tender  idolater  of  absent  charms. 
Saints  offer  nothing  in  their  warmest  pray'rs, 
That  he  devotes  not  with  a  zeal  like  theirs  ; 
'Tis  consecration  of  his  heart,  soul,  time, 
And  ev'ry  thought  that  wanders  is  a  crime. 
In  sighs  he  worships  his  supremely  fair, 
And  weeps  a  sad  libation  in  despair ; 
Adores  a  creature,  and,  devout  in  vain, 
Wins  in  return  an  answer  of  disdain. 
As  woodbine  weds  the  plant  within  her  reach, 
Rough  elm,  or  smooth-grain'd  ash,  or  glossy  beech, 

L2 


RETIREMENT. 


In  spiral  rings  ascends  the  trunk,  and  lays 
Her  golden  tassels  on  the  leafy  sprays, 
But  does  a  mischief  while  she  lends  a  grace, 
Strait'ning  its  growth  by  such  a  strict  embrace  j 
So  love,  that  clings  around  the  noblest  minds, 
Forbids  th'  advancement  of  the  soul  he  binds ; 
The  suitor's  air  indeed  he  soon  improves, 
And  forms  it  to  the  taste  of  her  he  loves, 
Teaches  his  eyes  a  language,  and  no  less 
Refines  his  speech,  and  fashions  his  address  ; 
But  farewell  promises  of  happier  fruits, 
Manly  designs,  and  learning's  grave  pursuits; 
Girt  with  a  chain  he  cannot  wish  to  break, 
His  only  bliss  is  sorrow  tor  her  sake  ; 
Who  will  may  pant  for  glory,  and  excel, 
Her  smile  his  aim,  all  higher  aims  farewell ! 
Thyrsis,  Alexis,  or  whatever  name 
May  least  offend  against  so  pure  a  flame, 
Though  sage  advice  of  friends  the  most  sincere 
Sounds  harshly  in  so  delicate  an  ear, 
And  lovers,  of  all  creatures,  tame  or  wild, 
Can  least  brook  management,  however  mild  ; 
Yet  let  a  poet  (poetry  disarms 
The  fiercest  animals  with  magic  charms) 
Risk  an  intrusion  on  thy  pensive  mood, 
And  woo  and  win  thee  to  thy  proper  good. 
Pastoral  images  and  still  retreats, 
Umbrageous  walks  and  solitary  seats, 
Sweet  birds  in  concert  with  harmonious  streams, 
Soft  airs,  nocturnal  vigils,  and  day  dreams, 
Are  all  enchantments  in  a  case  like  thine, 
Conspire  against  thy  peace  with  one  design, 
Soothe  thee  to  make  thee  but  a  surer  prey, 
And  feed  the  fire  that  wastes  thy  pow'rs  away. 
Up — God  has  form'd  thee  with  a  wiser  view, 
Not  to  be  led  in  chains,  but  to  subdue  ; 
Calls  thee  to  cope  with  enemies,  and  first 
Points  out  a  conflict  with  thyself,  the  worst. 
Woman  indeed,  a  gift  he  would  bestow 
When  he  design'd  a  Paradise  below, 
The  richest  earthly  boon  his  hands  afford, 
Deserves  to  be  belov'd,  but  not  ador'd. 
Post  away  swiftly  to  more  active  scenes, 
Collect  the  scatter'd  truths  that  study  gleans, 
Mix  with  the  world,  but  with  its  wiser  part, 
No  longer  give  an  image  all  thine  heart ; 
Its  empire  is  not  hers,  nor  is  it  thine, 
*Tis  God's  just  claim,  prerogative  divine. 

Virtuous  and  faithful  HEBERDEN,  whose  skill 


AETIREMENT.  115 

Attemps  no  task  it  cannot  well  fulfil, 

Gives  melancholy  up  to  Nature's  care, 

And  sends  the  patient  into  purer  air. 

Look  where  he  comes — in  this  embow'r'd  alcove 

Stand  close  conceal'd,  and  see  a  statue  move : 

Lips  husy,  and  eyes  fix'd,  foot  falling  slow, 

Arms  hanging  idly  down,  hands  clasp'd  below, 

Interpret  to  the  marking  eye  distress, 

Such  as  its  symptoms  can  alone  express. 

That  tongue  is  silent  now  ;  that  $il«nt  tongue 

Could  argue  once,  could  jest  or  join  the  song, 

Could  give  advice,  could  censure  or  commend, 

Or  charm  tha  sorrows  of  a  drooping  friend. 

Renounc'd  alike  its  office  and  its  sport, 

Its  brisker  and  its  graver  strains  fall  short; 

Both  fail  beneath  a  fever's  secret  sway, 

And  like  a  summer  brook  are  past  away. 

This  is  a  sight  for  Pity  to  peruse. 

Till  she  resemble  faintly  what  she  views, 

Till  Sympathy  contract  a  kindred  pain, 

Pierc'd  with  the  woes  that  she  laments  in  vain. 

This,  of  all  maladies  that  man  infest, 

Claims  most  compassion,  and  receives  the  least: 

Job  felt  it,  when  he  groan'd  beneath  the  rod 

And  the  barb'd  arrows  of  a  frowning  God ; 

And  such  emollients  as  his  friends  could  spare, 

Friends  such  as  his  for  modern  Jobs  prepare. 

Blest,  rather  curst,  with  hearts  that  never  feel, 

Kept  snug  in  caskets  of  close-hammer'd  steel, 

With  mouths  made  only  to  grin  wide  and  eat, 

And  minds,  that  deem  derided  pain  a  treat, 

With  limbs  of  British  oak,  and  nerves  of  wire, 

And  wit  that  puppet-prompters  might  inspire, 

Their  sov'reign  nostrum  is  a  clumsy  joke 

On  pangs  enforc'd  with  God's  severest  stroke. 

But  with  a  soul,  that  ever  felt  the  sting 

Of  sorrow,  sorrow  is  a  sacred  thing  : 

Not  to  molest,  or  irritate,  or  raise 

A  laugh  at  his  expense,  is  slender  praise  ; 

He,  that  has  not  usuip'd  the  name  of  man, 

Does  all,  and  deems  too  little  all,  he  can, 

T'assuage  the  throbbings  of  the  fester'd  part, 

And  staunch  the  bleedings  of  a  broken  heart. 

'Tis  not,  as  heads  that  never  ache,  suppose, 

Forg'ry  of  fancy,  and  a  dream  of  woes  ; 

Man  is  a  harp,  whose  chords  elude  the  sight, 

Each  yielding-  harmony  dispos'd  aright ; 

The  sciwvs  reversM  (a  task  which,  it  he  pleas«u 

God  in  a  monicnt  executes  with  ease,) 


RETIREMENT 


Ten  thousand  thousand  strings  at  once  go  loose, 

Lost,  till  he  cune  them,  all  their  pow'r  and  use. 

Then  neither  heathy  wilds,  nor  scenes  as  fair 

As  ever  recotnpens'd  the  peasant's  care, 

Nor  soft  declivities  with  tufted  hills, 

Nor  view  of  waters  turning  busy  mills, 

Parks  in  which  Ait  preceptress  Nature  weds, 

Nor  gardens  interspers'd  with  flow'ry  beds, 

Nor  gales,  that  catch  the  scent  of  blooming  groves, 

And  waft  it  to  the  mourner  as  he  roves, 

Can  call  up  life  into  his  faded  eye, 

That  passes  all  he  sees  unheeded  by  ; 

No  wounds  like  those  a  wounded  spirit  feels, 

No  cure  for  such,  till  God,  who  makes  them,  heals. 

And  thou,  sad  suffrer  under  nameless  ill, 

That  yields  not  to  the  touch  of  human  skill, 

Improve  the  kind  occasion,  understand 

A  Father's  frown,  and  kiss  his  chast'ning  hand. 

To  thee  the  dayspring,  and  the  blaze  of  noon, 

The  purple  evening  and  resplendent  moon, 

The  stars,  that,  sprinkled  o'er  the  vault  of  night, 

Seem  drops  descending  in  a  show'r  of  light, 

Shine  not,  or  undesir'd  and  hated  shine, 

Seen  through  the  medium  of  a  cloud  like  thine  : 

Yet  seek  him,  in  his  favor  life  is  found, 

All  bliss  beside  a  shadow  or  a  sound  : 

Then  heav'n,  eclips'd  so  long,  and  this  dull  earth, 

Shall  seem  to  start  into  a  second  birth  ; 

Nature,  assuming  a  more  lovely  face, 

Borrowing  a  beauty  from  the  works  of  grace, 

Shall  be  despis'd  and  overlook'd  no  more, 

Shall  fill  thee  with  delight  unfelt  before, 

Impart  to  things  inanimate  a  voice, 

And  bid  her  mountains  and  her  hills  rejoice  ; 

The  sound  shall  run  along  the  winding  vales, 

And  thou  enjoy  an  Eden  ere  it  fails. 

Ye  groves  (che  statesman  at  his  desk  exclaims, 
Sick  of  a  thousand  disappointed  aims), 
My  patrimonial  treasure  and  my  pride, 
Beneath  your  shades  your  gray  possessor  hide, 
Receive  me  languishing  for  that  repose 
The  servant  of  the  public  never  knows. 
Ye  saw  me  once  (ah,  those  regretted  days, 
When  boyish  innocence  was  all  my  praise  !) 
Hour  after  hour  delightfully  allot 
To  studies  then  familiar,  since  forgot, 
And  cultivate  a  taste  for  ancient  song, 
Catching  its  ardor  as  I  mus'd  along; 
Nor  seldom,  as  propitious  Heav'n  miglit  send, 


RETIREMENT.  117 

What  once  I  valu'd  and  could  boast,  a  friend, 

Were  witnesses  how  cordially  I  press'd 

His  undissembling  virtue  to  my  breast  ; 

Receive  me  now,  not  incorrupt  as  then, 

Nor  guiltless  of  corrupting  other  men, 

But  vers'd  in  arts,  that,  while  they  seem  to  stay 

A  falling  empire,  hasten  its  decay. 

To  the  fair  haven  of  my  native  home, 

The  wreck  of  what  I  was,  fatigued  I  come ; 

For  once  I  can  approve  the  patriot's  voice, 

And  make  the  course  he  recommends  my  choice  ' 

We  meet  at  last  in  one  sincere  desire, 

His  wish  and  mine  both  prompt  me  to  retire. 

'Tis  done — he  steps  into  the  welcome  chaise, 

Lolls  at  his  ease  behind  four  handsome  bays, 

That  whirl  away  from  business  and  debate 

The  disencumber' d  Atlas  of  the  state. 

Ask  not  the  boy,  who,  when  the  breeze  of  morn 

First  shakes  the  glitt'ring  drops  from  ev'ry  thorn, 

Unfolds  his  flock,  then  under  bank  or  bush 

Sits  h'nking  cherry-stones,  or  platting  rush, 

How  fair  is  Freedom  ? — he  was  always  free  : 

To  carve  his  rustic  name  upon  a  tree, 

To  snare  the  mole,  or  with  ill-fashion'd  hook 

To  draw  th'incautious  minnow  from  the  brook, 

Are  life's  prime  pleasures  in  his  simple  view, 

His  flock  the  chief  concern  he  ever  knew  ; 

She  shines  but  little  in  his  heedless  eyes, 

The  good  we  never  miss  we  rarely  prize : 

But  ask  the  noble  drudge  in  state  affairs, 

Escap'd  from  office  and  its  constant  cares, 

What  charms  he  sees  in  Freedom's  smile  exprass'd, 

In  Freedom  lost  so  long,  now  repossess'd  ; 

The  tongue,  whose  strains  were  cogent  as  commands, 

Rever'd  at  home,  and  felt  in  foreign  lands, 

Shall  own  itself  a  stamm'rer  in  that  cause, 

Or  plead  its  silence  as  its  best  applause. 

He  knows  indeed  that  whether  dress'd  or  rude 

Wild  without  art  or  artfully  subdued, 

Nature  in  ev'ry  form  inspires  delight, 

But  never  maik'd  her  with  so  just  a  sight. 

Her  hedge-row  shrubs,  a  variegated  store, 

With  woodbine  and  wild  roses  mantled  o'er, 

Green  balks  and  furrow'd  lands,  the  stream,  that  spread* 

Its  cooling  vapor  o'er  the  dewy  meads, 

Downs,  that  almost  escape  th 'inquiring  eye, 

That  melt  and  fade  into  thv  distant  sky, 

Beauties  he  lately  slighted  as  he  pass'd, 

Seem  all  created  since  he  travell'd  last. 


118  RETIREMENT. 

Master  of  all  th'enjoyments  he  design'd, 

No  rough  annoyance  rankling  in  his  mind, 

What  early  philosophic  hours  he  keeps, 

How  regular  his  meals,  how  sound  he  sleeps! 

Not  sounder  he,  that  on  the  mainmast  head, 

"While  morning  kindles  with  a  windy  red, 

Begins  a  long  look-out  tor  distant  land, 

Nor  quits  till  ev'ning  watch  his  giddy  stand, 

Then  swift  descending  with  a  seaman's  haste, 

Slips   to  his  hammock,  and  forgets  the  blast. 

He  chooses  company,  but  not  the  squires, 

Whose  wit  is  rudeness,  whose  good-breeding  tires ; 

Nor  yet  the  parson's  who  would  gladly  come, 

Obsequious  when  abroad,  though  proud  at  home  ; 

Nor  can  he  much  affect  the  neighb'ring  peer, 

Whose  toe  of  emulation  treads  too  near  ; 

But  wisely  seeks  a  more  convenient  friend, 

With  whom,  dismissing  forms,  he  may  unbend! 

A  man,  whom  marks  of  condescending  grace 

Teach,  while  they  flatter  him,  his  proper  place ; 

Who  comes  when  call'd,  and  at  a  word  withdraws; 

Speaks  with  reserve,  and  listens  with  applause ; 

Some  plain  mechanic,  who,  without  pretence 

To  biith  or  wit,  nor  gives  nor  takes  offence  ; 

On  whom  he  rests  well-pleas'd  his  weary  pow'rs, 

And  talks  and  laughs  away  his  vacant  hours. 

The  tide  of  life,  swift  always  in  its  cuurse, 

May  run  in  cities  wiih  a  brisker  force, 

But  no  where  with  a  current  so  serene, 

Or  half  so  clear,  as  in  the  rural  scene. 

Yet  how  fallacious  is  all  earthly  bliss, 

What  obvious  truths  the  wisest  heads  may  miss  { 

Some  pleasures  live  a  month,  and  some  a  year, 

But  short  the  date  of  all  we  gather  here ; 

No  happiness  is  felt,  except  the  true, 

That  does  not  charm  the  more  for  being  new. 

This  observation,  as  it  chanc'd,  not  made, 

Or,  if  the  thought  occurr'd,  not  duly  weigh'd, 

He  sighs— for  after  all  by  slow  degrees 

The  spot  he  lov'd  has  lost  the  pow'r  to  please; 

To  cross  his  ambling  pony  day  by  day, 

Seems  at  the  bt  st  but  dreaming  life  away  ; 

The  prospect,  such  as  might  enchant  despair, 

He  views  it  not,  or  sees  no  beauty  there ; 

With  aching  heart,  and  discontented  looks, 

Returns  at  noon  to  billiards  or  to  books, 

But  lV-els,  while  grasping  at  his  faded  joys, 

A  secret  thirst  of  his  renounc'd  employs. 

He  chides  the  tardiness  of  ev'ry  post, 


RETIREMENT. 

Pants  to  be  told  of  battles  won  or  lost, 
Blames  his  own  indolence,  observes,  though  late, 
'Tis  criminal  to  leave  a  sinking  state, 
Flies  to  the  levee,  and,  receiv'd  with  grace, 
Kneels,  kisses  hands,  and  shines  again  in  place 

Suburban  villas,  highway-.side  tetre.us, 
That  dread  th'encroachment  of  our  -/rowing  streets, 
Tight  boxes  neatly  sash'd,  and  in  a  blaze 
With  all  a  July's  sun's  collected  rays, 
Delight  the  citizen,  who,  gasping  there, 
Breathes  clouds  of  dust,  and  calls  it  country  air. 
O  sweet  retirement,  who  would  balk  the  thought, 
That  could  afford  retirement,  or  could  not? 
'Tis  such  an  easy  walk,  so  smooth  and  straight, 
The  second  milestone  fronts  the  garden  gate ; 
A  step  if  fair,  and,  if  a  show'r  approach, 
You  find  safe  shelter  in  the  next  stage-coach. 
There,  prison'd  in  a  parlor  snug  and  small, 
Like  bottled  wasps  upon  a  southern  wall, 
The  man  of  business  and  his  friends  compress'd 
Forget  their  labours,  and  yet  find  no  rest ; 
But  still  'tis  rural — trees  are  to  be  seen 
From  ev'ry  window,  and  the  fields  are  green ; 
Ducks  paddle  in  the  pond  before  the  dooc, 
And  wnat  could  a  remoter  scene  show  more  ? 
A  sense  of  elegance  we  rarely  find 
The  portion  of  a  mean  or  vulgar  mind, 
And  ignorance  of  better  things  makes  man, 
Who  cannot  much,  rejoice  in  what  he  can ; 
And  he,  that  deems  his  leisure  well  bestow'd 
In  contemplation  of  a  turnpike  road,   * 
Is  occupied  as  well,  employs  his  hours 
As  wiscb',  and  as  much  improves  his  pow'rs, 
As  he,  th.:t  slumbers  in  pavilions  grac'd 
With  all  the  charms  of  an  accomplish'd  taste. 
Yet  hence,  alas  !  insolvencies;  and  hence 
Th'unpitied  victim  of  ill-judged  expense, 
From  all  his  wearisome  engagements  freed, 
Shakes  hands  with  business,  and  retires  indeed. 

Your  prudent  grand-mammas,  ye  modern  belles, 
Content  with  Bristol,  Bath,  and  Tunbridge-wells, 
Wrhen  health  requir'd  it  would  consent  to  roam, 
Else  more  attached  to  pleasures  found  at  home. 
But  now  alike,  gay  widow,  virgin,  wife, 
Ingenious  to  diversify  dull  life, 
In  coaches,  chaises,   caravans,  and  hoys, 
Fly  to  the  coast  for  daily,  nightly  joys  ; 
And  all,  impatient  of  dry  land,  agree 
With  one  consent  to  rush  into  the  sea.— 


RETIREMENT. 

Ocean  exhibits,  fathomless  and  broad, 

Much  of  the  pow'r  and  majesty  of  God. 

He  swathes  about  the  swelling  of  the  deep, 

That  shines  and  rests,  as  infants  smile  and  sleep ; 

Vast  as  it  is,  it  answers  as  it  flows 

The  breathings  of  the  lightest  air  that  blows ; 

Curling  and  v.hit'ning  over  all  the  waste, 

The  rising  waves  obey  th'increasing  blast, 

Abrupt  and  horrid  as  the  tempest  roars, 

Thunder  and  flash  upon  the  stedfast  shores, 

Till  he,  that  rides  the  whirlwind,  checks  the  rein, 

Then  all  the  world"  of  waters  sleeps  again. — 

Nereids  or  Dryads,  as  the  fashion  leads, 

Now  in  the  floods,  now  panting  in  the  meads, 

Vot'ries  of  Pleasure  still,  where'er  she  dwells, 

Near  barren  rocks,  in  palaces,  or  cells, 

O  grant  a  poet  leave  to  recommend 

(A  poet  fond  of  Nature,  and  your  friend) 

Her  slighted  works  to  your  admiring  view  ; 

Her  works  must  needs  excel,  who  fashion'd  you. 

Would  ye,  wh<?n  rambling  in  your  morning  ride, 

With  some  unmeaning  coxcomb  at  your  side, 

Condemn  the  prattler  for  his  idle  pains, 

To  waste  unheard  the  music  of  his  strains, 

And,  deaf  to  all  th'impertinence  of  tongue, 

That,  while  it  courts,  affronts  and  does  you  wrong, 

Mark  well  the  finish'd  plan  without  a  fault, 

The  seas  globose  and  huge,  th'o'erarching  vault, 

Earth's  millions  daily  fed,  a  world  employ'd 

In  gath'ring  plenty  yet  to  be  enjoy'd, 

Till  gratitude  grew  vocal  in  the  praise 

Of  God,  beneficient  in  all  hi-s  ways  ; 

Grac'd  with  such  wisdom,  how  would  beauty  shine  I 

Ye  want  but  that  to  seem  indeed  diviue. 

Aiuicipated  rents,  and  bills  unpaid, 
Force  many  a  shining  youth  into  the  shade, 
Not  to  redeem  bis  time,  but  his  estate, 
And  play  the  fool,  but  at  a  cheaper  rate. 
There,  hid  in  loath'd  obscurity,  remov'd 
From  pleasures  left,  but  never  more  belov'd, 
He  just  endures,  and  with  a  sickly  spleen 
Sighs  o'er  the  beauties  of  the  charming  scene. 
Nature  indeed  looks  prettily  in  rhyme  ; 
Streams  tinkle  sweetly  in  poetic  chime  : 
The  warblings  of  the  blackbird,  clear  and  strong, 
Are  musical  enough  in  Thomson's  song ; 
And  Cobham's  groves,  and  Windsor's  green  retreats, 
When  Pope  describes  them,  have  a  thousand  sweets; 
He  likes  the  country,  but  in  truth  must  owu 


RETIREMENT.  121 

Most  Tikes  it,  when  he  studies  it  in  to  T.n. 

Poor  Jack — no  matter  who — for  when  I  blame, 
I  pity,  and  must  therefore  sink  the  name, 
Liv'd  in  his  saddle,  lov'd  the  ch;.se,  the  course, 
And  always,  ere  he  mounted,  kiss'd  his  horse. 
The  estate,  his  sires  had  own'd  in  ancient  years, 
Was  quickly  distanc'd,  match'd  against  a  peer's. 
Jack  vanish'd,  was  regretted  and  forgot; 
'Tis  wild  good-nature's  never-failing  lot. 
At  length,  when  all  had  long  suppos'd  him  dead, 
By  cold  submersion,  razor,  rope,  or  lead, 
My  lord,  alighting  at  his  usual  place, 
The  Crown,  took  notice  of  an  os'ler's  face. 
Jack  knew  his  friend,  but  hop'd  in  that  disguise 
He  might  escape  the  most  observing  eyes, 
And  whistling,  as  if  unconcern' d  and  gay, 
Curried  his  nag,  and  look'd  another  way. 
Convinc'd  at  last,  upon  a  nearer  view, 
'T  was  he,  the  same,  the  very  Jack  he  knew, 
O'erwhelrn'd  at  once  with  wonder,  grief,  an-1  joy, 
He  press'd  him  much  to  quit  his  base  employ  ; 
His  countenance,  his  purse,  his  heart,  his  hand, 
Influence  and  pow'r,  were  all  at  his  command: 
Peers  are  not  always  gen'rous  as  well-bred, 
But  Granby  was,  meant  truly  what  he  said. 

Jack  bow'd,  and  was  oblig'd — confess'd  'twas  strange, 
That  so  retir'd  he  should  not  wish  a  change, 

But  knew  no  medium  between  guzzling  bet    , 

And  his  old  stint — three  thousand  pound  a-year. 
Thus  some  retire  to  nourish  hopeless  woe ; 

Some  seeking  happiness  not  found  below  ; 
Some  to  comply  with  humor,  and  a  mind 

'j  o  social  scenes  by  nature  discinclin'd  ; 

Some  sway'd  by  fashion,  some  by  deep  disgust ; 

Some  self-impov'rish'd,  and  because  they  must; 

But  few,  that  court  Retirement,  are  aware 

Of  half  the  toils  they  must  encounter  there. 
Lucrative  offices  are  seldom  lost 

For  want  of  pow'r  proportion' d  to  the  post: 

Give  e'en  a  dunce  th' employment  he  desires, 

And  he  soon  finds  the  talents  it  requires  ; 

A  business  with  an  income    at  its  heels 

Furnishes  always  oil  for  its  own  wheels. 

But  in  his  arduous  enterprise  to  close 

His  active  years  with  indolent  repose, 

He  rinds  the  labors  of  that  state  exceed 

His  utmost  faculties,  severe  indeed. 

'T  is  easy  to  resign  a  toilsome  place, 

But  not  to  manage  leisure  with  a  grace; 

II 


122  RETIREMENT. 

Absence  of  occupation  is  not  rest, 

A  mind  quite  vacant  is  a  mind  distress'd. 

The  vet'ran  steed,  excus'd  his  task  at  length, 

In  kind  compassion  cf  his  failing  strength, 

And  turn'd  into  the  park  or  mead  to  graze, 

Exempt  from  future  service  all  his  days, 

There  feels  a  pleasure  perfect  in  its  kind, 

Ranges  at  liberty,  and  suurls  the  wind  ; 

But  when  his  lord  would  quit  the  busy  road, 

To  taste  a  joy  like  that  he  had  bestow'd, 

He  proves,  less  happy  tnan  his  favor' d  brute, 

A  life  of  ease  a  difficult  pursuit. 

Thought,  to  the  man  that  never  thinks,  may  seem 

As  natural  as  when  asleep  to  dream  ; 

But  reveries  (for  human  minds  will  act) 

Spacious  in  show,  impossible  in  fact, 

Those  flimsy  webs,  that  break  as  soon  as  wrought, 

Attain  not  to  the  dignity  of  thought: 

Nor  yet  the  swarms,  that  occupy  the  brain, 

Where  dreams  of  dress,  intrigue,  and  pleasure  reigns  ; 

Nor  such  as  useless  conversation  breeds, 

Or  lust  engenders,  and  indulgence  feeds. 

Whence,  and  what  are  we  ?  to  what  end  ordain'd  ? 

What  means  the  drama  by  the  world  sustain'd? 

Business  or  vain  amusement,  care  or  mirth, 

Divide  the  frail  inhabitants  of  earth. 

Is  duty  a  mere  sport,  or  an  employ  ? 

Life  an  intrusted  talent,  or  a  toy  ? 

Is  there,  as  reason,  conscience,  Scripture,  say, 

Cause  to  provide  for  a  great  future  day, 

When,  earth's  assign'd  duration  at  an  end, 

Man  shall  be  summon'd  and  the  dead  attend  ? 

The  trumpet— will  it  sound,  the  curtain  rise, 

And  show  th'august  tribunal  of  the  skies  ; 

Where  no  prevarication  shall  avail, 

Where  eloquence  and  artifice  shall  fail, 

The  pride  of  arrogant  distinctions  fall, 

And  conscience  and  our  conduct  judge  us  all? 

Pardon  me,  ye  that  give  the  midnight  oil 

To  learned  cares,  or  philosophic  toil, 

Though  I  revere  your  honorable  names, 

Your  useful  labours  and  important  aims, 

And  hold  the  world  indebted  to  your  aid, 

Enrich'd  with  the  discov'ries  ye  have  made  ; 

Yet  let  me  stand  excus'd,  if  I  esteem 

A  mind  employ'd  on  so  sublime  a  theme, 

Pushing  her  bold  'nquiry  to  the  date 

And  outline  of  the  present  transient  state, 

And,  after  poising  her  advent'rous  wings, 


RETII:  ;:MENT.  123 

Settling  at  last  upon  eternal  things, 
Far  more  intelligent,  and  better  taugl.t 
The  strenuous  use  of  profitable  thought, 
Than  ye,  when  happiest,  and  enlightened  most, 
And  highest  in  renown,  can  justl)  boast. 
A  mind  unnerv'd,  or  indispos'd  to  bear 
The  weight  of  subjects  worthiest  of  her  care, 
"Whatever  hopes  a  change  of  scene  inspires, 
Must  change  her  nature,  or  in  vain  retires. 
An  idler  is  a  watch,  that  wants  both  hands, 
As  useless  if  it  goes,  as  when  it  stands. 
Books  therefore,  not  the  scandal  of  the  shelves, 
In  which  lewd  sensualists  print  out  themselves  ; 
Nor  those,  in  which  the  stage  gives  vice  a  blow, 
With  what  success  let  modern  manners  show  ; 
Nor  his,  who,  fur  the  bane  of  thousands  born, 
Built  God  a  church,  and  laugh'd  his  word  to  scorn, 
Skilful  alike  to  seem  devout  and  just, 
And  stab  religion  with  a  sly  side-thrust ; 
Nor  those  of  learn'd  philologists,  who  chase 
A  panting  syllable  through  tune  and  space, 
Start  it  at  home,  and  hunt  it  in  the  dark, 
To  Gaul,  to  Greece,  and  into  Noah's  ark ; 
But  such  as  Learning  without  false  pretence, 
The  friend  of  Truth,  th'associate  of  sound  Sense, 
And  such  as,  in  the  zeal  of  good  design, 
Strong  judgment  lab'ring  in  the  Scripture  mine, 
All  such  as  manly  and  great  souls  produce, 
Worthy  to  live,  and  of  eternal  use  : 
Behold  in  these  what  leisure  hours  demand, 
Amusement  and  true  knowledge  hand  in  hand. 
Luxury  gives  the  mind  a  childish  cast, 
And,  while  she  polishes,  perverts  the  taste ; 
Habits  of  close  attention,  thinking  heads, 
Become  more  rare  as  dissipation  spreads, 
Till  authors  hear  at  length  one  gen'ral  cry, — 
Tickle  and  entertain  us,  or  we  die. 
The  loud  demand, from  year  to  year  the  same, 
Beggars  Invention,  and  makes  Fancy  lame  ; 
Till  farce  itself,  most  mournfully  jejune, 
Calls  for  the  kind  assistance  of  a  tune  ; 
And  novels  (witness  ev'ry  month's  review) 
Belie  their  name,  and  offer  nothing  new. 
The  mind,  relaxing  into  needful  sport, 
Should  turn  to  writers  of  an  abler  sort, 
Whose  wit  well  manag'd,  and  whose  classic  stylej 
Give  truth  a  lustre,  and  make  wisdom  smile. 
Friends  (for  I  cannot  stint,  as  some  have  done, 
Too  rigid  in  my  view,  that  name  to  one ; 


RETIREMENT. 

Though  one,  I  grant  it,  in  the  gen'rous  breast 
Will  stand  advanc'd  a  step  above  the  rest: 
Flow'rs  by  that  name  promiscuously  we  call, 
But  one,  the  rose,  the  regent  of  them  all) — 
Friends,  not  adopted  with  a  schoolboy's  haste, 
But  chosen  witli  a  nice  discerning  taste, 
Well-born,  well-disciplin'd,  who,  plac'd  apart 
From  vulgar  minds,  have  honor  much  at  heart, 
And,  though  the  world  may  think  th'ingredients  odd, 
The  love  of  virtue,  and  the  fear  of  God ! 
Such  friends  prevent  what  else  would  soon  succeed, 
A  temper  rustic  as  the  life  we  lead, 
And  keep  the  polish  of  the  manners  clean 
As  theirs  who  bustle  in  the  busiest  scenes; 
For  solitude,  however  some  may  rave, 
Seeming  a  sanctuary,  proves  a  grave, 
A  sepulchre  in  which  the  living  lie, 
Where  all  good  qualities  grow  sick  and  die. 
1  praise  the  Frenchman,*  his  remark  was  shrewd- 
How  sweet,  how  passing  sweet,  is  solitude  ! 
But  grant  me  still  a  friend  in  my  retreat, 
Whom  I  may  whisper — solitude  is  sweet. 
Yet  neither  these  delights,  nor  aught  beside, 
That  appetite  can  ask,  or  wealth  provide, 
Can  save  us  always  from  a  tedious  day, 
Or  shine  the  dulness  of  still  life  away; 
Divine  communion,  carefully  enjoy 'd, 
Or  sought  with  energy,  must  fill  the  void. 
O  sacred  art,  to  which  alone  life  owes 
Its  happiest  seasons,  and  a  peaceful  close, 
Scorn'd  in  a  world,  indebted  to  that  scorn 
For  evils  daily  tVlt  and  hardly  borne, 
•Not  knowing  thee,  we  reap  with  bleeding  hands 
Flow'rs  of  rank  odor  upon  thorny  lands, 
And,  while  Experience  cautions  us  in  vain, 
Grasp  seeming  happiness,  and  find  it  pain. 
Despondence,  self-deserted  in  her  grief, 
Lost  by  abandoning  her  own  rel.ef, 
Murmuring  and  ungrateful  Discontent, 
That  scorns  afflictions  mercifully  meant, 
Those  humors,  tart  as  wines  upon  the  fret, 
Which  idleness  and  weariness  beget; 
These,  and  a  thousand  plagues,  that  haunt  the  breast, 
Fond  of  the  phantom  of  an  earthly  rest, 
Divine  communion  chases,  as  the  day 
Drives  to  their  dens  th'obedienc  beasts  of  prey. 
See  Judah's  promis'd  king,  bereft  of  all, 

*  Bruyere. 


RETIREMENT 

Driv'n  out  an  exile  from  the  face  of  Saul, 
To  distant  caves  'the  lonely  wand'rer  Hies, 
To  seek  that  peace  a  tyrant's  frown  denies. 
Hear  the  sweet  accents  of  his  tuneful  voice, 
Hear  him,  o'erwelm'd  with  sorrow,  yet  rejoice; 
No  womanish  or  wailing  grief  has  part, 
No,  not  a  moment,  in  his  royal  heart  ; 
'Tis  manly  music,  such  as  martyrs  make, 
Suti'ring  with  gladness  for  a  Saviour's  sake  : 
His  soul  exults,  hope  animates  his  lavs, 
The  sense  of  mercy  kindles  into  praise, 
And  wilds,  familiar  with  a  lion's  roar, 
Ring  with  ecstatic  sounds  unheard  he-fore: 
'Tis  love  like  his,  that  can  alone  defeat 
The  foes  of  man,  or  make  a  desert  sweet. 

Religion  does  not  censure  or  exclude 
Unnumber'd  pleasures  harmlessly  pursued  ; 
To  study  culture,  and  with  artful  toil 
To  meliorate  and  tame  the  stubborn  soil ; 
To  give  dissimilar  yet  fruitful  lands 
The  grain,  or  h»rb,  or  plant  that  each  demands ; 
To  iherish  virtue  in  an  humble  state, 
And  share  the  joys  your  bounty  may  create ; 
To  mark  the  matchless  workings  of  the  pow'r 
That  shuts  within  its  seed  the  future  rlow'r, 
Bids  these  in  elegance  of  form  excel, 
In  color  these,  and  those  delight  the  smell, 
Sends  Nature  forth  the  daughter  of  the  skies, 
To  dance  on  earth,  and  charm  all  human  eyes; 
To  teach  the  canvass  innocent  deceit, 
Or  lay  the  landscape  on  the  snowy  sheet — 
These,  these  are  arts  pursued  without  a  crime 
That  leave  no  stain  upon  the  wing  of  Time. 

Me  poetry  (or  rather  notes  that  aim 
Feebly  and  vainly  at  poetic  lame) 
Employs,  shut  out  from  mere  important  views. 
Fast  by  the  banks  of  the  slow  winding  Ouse; 
Content  if  thus  sequester'd  I  may  raise 
A  monitor's  though  not  a  poet's  praise, 
And  while  1  teach  an  art  too  little  known, 
To  close  life  wisely,  may  not  waste  n»y 


126 


THE  YEARLY  DISTRESS, 

OR    TITHING     TIME     AT     STOCK,     IN     ESSEX. 


Verses  addressed  to  a  country  clergyman  complaining  of  the 
disagreeableness  of  the  day  annually  appointed  for  receiving 
the  dues  at  the  parsonage. 

Come,  ponder  well,  for  'tis  no  jest, 

To  laugh  it  would  be  wrong, 
The  troubles  of  a  worthy  priest 

The  burthen  of  my  song. 

This  priest  he  merry  is  and  blithe 

Three  quarters  of  a  year, 
But  oh  !  it  cuts  him  like  a  scythe, 

When  tithing  time  draws  near. 

He  then  is  full  of  fright  and  fears, 

As  one  at  point  to  die, 
And  long  before  the  day  appears 

He  heaves  up  many  a  sigh. 

For  then  the  farmers  come  jog,  jog, 

Along  the  miry  road, 
Each  heart  as  heavy  as  a  log, 

To  make  their  payments  good. 

In  sooth,  the  sorrow  of  such  days 

Is  not  to  be  express'd, 
When  he  that  takes  and  he  that  pays 

Are  both  alike  distress'd. 

Now  all  unwelcome  at  his  gates 

The  clumsy  swains  alight, 
With  rueful  faces  and  baUi  pates — 

He  trembles  at  the  sight. 


THE    YEARLY    DISTRESS.  J27 

And  well  he  may,  for  well  he  knows 

Each  bumpkin  of  the  clan, 
Instead  of  paying  what  he  owes, 

Will  cheat  him  if  he  can. 

So  in  they  come — each  makes  his  leg, 

And  flings  his  head  hefore, 
And  looks  as  if  he  came  to  beg, 

And  not  to  quit  a  score. 

"And  how  does  miss  and  madam  do, 

"The  little  boy  and  all?" 
"  All  tight  and  well.     And  how  do  you, 

"Good  Mr.  What-d'ye-calH" 

The  dinner  comes,  and  down  they  sit : 

Were  e'er  such  hungry  folk  ? 
There's  little  talking,  and  no  wit; 

It  is  no  time  to  joke. 

One  wipes  his  nose  upon  his  sleeve, 

One  spits  upon  the  floor, 
Yet,  not  to  give  offence  or  grieve, 

Holds  up  the  cloth  before. 

The  punch  goes  round,  and  they  are  dull 

And  lumpish  still  as  ever; 
Like  barrels  with  their  bellies  full, 

They  only  weigh  the  heavier. 

At  length  the  busy  time  begins. 

"  Come,  neighbours,  we  must  wag — " 
The  money  chinks,  down  drop  their  chins, 

Each  lugging  out  his  bag. 

One  talks  of  mildew  and  of  frost, 

And  one  of  storms  of  hail, 
And  one  of  pigs,  that  he  has  lost 

By  maggots  at  the  tail. 

Quoth  one,  "  A  rarer  man  than  you 

"In  pulpit  none  shall  hear  : 
"  But  yet,  methinks,  to  tell  you  true, 

«'  You  stll  it  plaguy  dear." 

O  why  are  farmers  made  so  coarse, 
Or  clergy  made  so  fine  ? 


1  L'S 

A  kick,  tnat  scarce  would  move  a  home, 
May  kill  a  sound  divine. 

Then  let  the  boobies  stay  at  homei 
'Twould  cost  him,  I  dare  say, 

Less  trouble  taking  twice  the  sum, 
Without  the  clowns  that  pay. 


SONNET 


ADDRESSED    TO    HENRY    COWPER,    ESQ. 
On  his  etnphatical  and  interesting  Delivery  of  the  Defence  of 
Warren  Hastings,  Esq.,  in  the  House  of  Lords. 


COWPER,  whose  silver  voice,  task'd  sometimes  hard, 

Legends  prolix  delivers  in  the  ears 

(Attentive  when  thou  read'st)  of  England's  peers, 
Let  verse  at  length  yield  thee  thy  just  reward. 

Thou  wast  not  heard  with  drowsy  disregard, 
Expending  late  on  all  that  length  of  plea 
Thy  gen'rous  pow'rs  ;   but  silence  honor'd  thee, 

Mute  as  e'er  gaz'd  on  orator  or  bard. 

Thou  art  not  voice  alone,  but  hast  beside 

Both  heart  and  head  :  and  couldst  with  music  sweet 

Of  Attic  phrase  an<\  senatorial  tone, 
Like  thy  renown'd  forefathers,  far  and  wide 

Thy  fame  diffuse,  prais'd  not  for  utt'mnce  me«t 
Of  Others'  speech,  but  magic  of  thy  own. 


129 


LINES 


ADDRESSED    TO    DR.    DARWIN,    AUTHOR    OP 
"  The  Botanic  Garden," 


Two  Poets*  (poets,  by  report, 

.Not  oft  so  well  agree), 
Sweet  Harmonist  of  Flora's  court  1 

Conspire  to  honor  Thee. 

They  best  can  judge  a  poet's  worth, 
Who  oft  themselves  iiave  known 

The  pangs  of  a  poetic  birth 
By  labors  oi  their  own. 

We  therefore  pleas'd  extol  thy  song 
Though  various  yet  complete, 

Rich  in  embellishment  as  strong, 
And  learned  as  'tis  sweet. 

No  envy  mingles  with  our  praise,  * 
Though,  could  our  hearts  repine 

At  any  poet's  happier  lays, 

They  would — they  must  at  thine. 

But  we,  in  mutual  bondage  knit 

Of  friendship's  closest  tie, 
Can  gaze  on  even  Darwin's  wit 

With  an  unjaundic'd  eye 

And  deem  the  Bard,  whoe'er  he  be, 

And  howsoever  known, 
Who  would  not  twine  a  wreath  for  Thee, 

Unworthy  of  his  own. 


*  Alluding  to  the  poem  by  Mr.  Hayley,  which  accompanied  these  lines. 


130 


ON 
MRS.  MONTAGU'S  FEATHER-HANGINGS. 

The  birds  put  off  their  ev'ry  hue, 
To  dress  a  room  for  Montagu. 

The  Peacock  sends  his  heav'nly  dyes, 
His  rainbows  and  his  starry  eyes  ; 
The  Pheasant  plumes,  which  round  infold 
His  mantling  neck  with  downy  gold-; 
The  Cock  his  arch'd  tail's  azure  show; 
And,  river-blanch'd,  the  Swan  his  snow. 
All  tribes  beside  of  Indian  name, 
That  glossy  shine,  or  vivid  flame, 
Where  rises,  and  where  sets  the  day, 
Whate'er  they  boast  of  rich  and  gay, 
Contribute  to  the  gorgeous  plan, 
Proud  to  advance  it  all  they  can. 
This  plumage  neither  dashing  show'r, 
Nor  blasts,  that  shake  the  dripping  bow'r, 
Shall  drench  again  or  discompose, 
But,  screen'd  from  ev'ry  storm  that  blowsi 
It  boasts  a  splendor  ever  new, 
Safe  with  protecting  Montagu. 

To  the  same  patroness  resort, 
Secure  of  favor  at  her  court, 
Strong  Genius,  from  whose  forge  of  thought 
Forms  rise,  to  quick  perfection  wrought, 
Which,  though  new-born,  with  vigor  move, 
Like  Pallas  springing  arm'd  from  Jove- 
Imagination  scatt'ring  round 
Wild  roses  over  furrow'd  ground, 
Which  Labor  of  his  frown  beguile, 
And  teach  Philosophy  a  smile — 
Wit  flashing  on  Religion's  side, 
Whose  fires,  to  sacred  Truth  applied, 
The  gem,  though  luminous  before, 
Obtrude  on  human  notice  more, 
Like  sunbeams  on  the  golden  height 
Of  some  tall  temple  playing  bright — 
Well-tutor' el  Learning,  from  his  books 
Dismiss VI  with  grave,  not  haughty,  looki, 
Their  order  on  his  shelves  exact, 


131 

Not  more  harmonious  or  compact 
Than  that,  to  which  he  keeps  confin  *d 
The  various  treasures  of  his  mind — 
All  these  to  Montagu's  repair, 
Ambitious  of  a  shelter  there. 
There  Genius,  Learning,  Fancy,  Wit, 
Their  ruffled  plumage  calm  refit, 
(For  stormy  troubles  loudest  roar 
Around  their  flight  who  highest  soar) 
And  in  her  eye,  and  by  her  aid, 
Shine  safe  without  a  fear  te  fade. 

She  thus  maintains  divided  sway 
With  yon  bright  regent  of  the  day ; 
The  plume  and  poet  both,  we  know, 
Their  lustre  to  his  influence  owe; 
And  she  the  works  of  Phoebus  aiding, 
Both  poet  saves  and  plume  from  fading. 


VERSES 

Supposed  to  be  written  by  Alexander  Selkirk,  during  hii  solitary 
abode  in  the  Island  of  Juan  Fernandez. 

I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey, 

My  right  there  is  .lone  to  dispute; 

From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea, 
I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

0  Solitude!   where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face  ? 

Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms, 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

1  am  out  of  humanity's  reach, 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone, 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech, 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts,  that  roam  over  the  plain, 

My  form  with  indifference  see ; 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man, 

Their  lameness  is  shocking  to  me. 


o 


Society,  friendship,  and  love, 
Divinely  bestow'd  upon  man, 

O,  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove, 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again] 


132 

My  sorrows  I  then  might  assauge 
In  the  ways  of  religion  and  truth, 

Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 
And  be  cheer'd  by  the  sallies  of  youth 

Religion  !  what  treasure  untold 

Resides  in  that  heavenly  word  ! 
More  precious  than  silver  and  gold, 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afibi  d. 
But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 

These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard, 
Never  sigh'd  at  the  sound  of  a  knell, 

Or  smil'd  when  a  sabbath  appear'd. 

l?e  winds,  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land    I  shall  visit  no  more. 
My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  I 
O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind  ! 

Compar'd  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

And  the  swift-winged  arrows  of  light 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a  moment  1  seem  to  be  there ; 
But  alas  !  recollection  at  hand 

Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  sea-fowl  is  gone  to  her  nest, 

The  beast  is  laid  do*vu  .n  his  lair; 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There's  mercy  in  ev'ry  place, 

And  mercy,  encouraging  thought  I 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace, 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 


ON   THE   PROMOTION    OF 

EDWARD  THURLOW,  ESQ. 

TO  THE  LORD  HIGH  CHANCELLORSHIP  OF  ENGLAND. 

Round  Thurlow's  head  in  early  youth, 

And  in  his  sportive  days, 
Fair  Science  pour'd  the  light  of  truth, 

And  Genius  shed  his  rays. 

See !  with  united  wonder  cried 

Th'  experienc'd  and  the  sage, 
Ambition  in  a  boy  supplied 

With  all  the  skill  of  age ! 

Discernment,  eloquence,  and  grace 

Proclaim  him  born  to  sway 
The  balance  in  the  highest  place, 

And  bear  the  palm  away. 

The  praise  bestow'd  was  just  and  wise.; 

He  sprang  impetuous  forth 
Secure  of  conquest,  where  the  prize 

Attends  superior  worth. 

So  the  best  courser  on  the  plain 

Ere  yet  he  starts  is  known, 
4nd  does  but  at  a  goal  obtain 

"What  all  had  deem'd  his  own 


ODE  TO  PEACE 

Come,  peace  of  mind,  delightful  guest! 
Return,  and  make  thy  downy  nest 

Once  more  in  this  sad  heart : 
Nor  riches  I  nor  pow'r  pursue, 
Nor  hold  forbidden  joys  in  view ; 

We  therefore  need  not  part. 
V 


134 

Where  wilt  tftou  dwell,  if  not  with  me, 
From  av'rice  and  ambition  free, 

And  pleasure's  fatal  wiles  1 
For  whom,  alas !  dost  thou  prepare 
The  sweets  that  I  was  wont  to  &hare, 

The  banquet  of  thy  smiles  ? 

The  great,  the  gay,  shall  they  partake 
The  heav'n,  that  thou  alone  canst  make  t 

And  wilt  thou  quit  the  stream, 
That  murmers  through  the  dewy  mead, 
The  grove  and  the  sequester'd  shed, 

To  be  a  guest  with  them  ? 

For  thee  I  panted,  thee  I  priz'd, 

For  thee  I  gladly  sacrific'd 
Whate'er  I  lov'd  before  ; 

And  shall  I  see  thee  start  away, 

And  helpless,  hopeless,  hear  thee  say- 
Farewell  !  we  meet  no  more  ? 


HUMAN  FRAILTY. 

Weak  and  irresolute  is  man  ; 

The  purpose  of  to-day, 
Woven  with  pains  into  his  plan, 

To-morrow  rends  away. 

The  bow  well  bent,  and  smart  the  spring, 

Vice  seems  already  slain  ; 
But  Passion  rudely  snaps  the  string, 

And  it  revives  again. 

Some  foe  to  his  upright  intent 

Finds  out  his  weaker  part; 
Virtue  engages  his  assent, 

But  Pleasure  wins  his  heart. 

'Tis  here  the  folly  of  the  wise 
Through  all  his  att  we  view; 

And,  while  his  tongue  the  charge  denies, 
His  conscience  owns  it  true. 

Bound  on  a  voyage  of  awful  length 

And  dangers  little  known, 
A  stranger  to  superior  strength, 

Man  vainly  trusts  his  own. 


135 

But  oars  alone  can  ne'er  prevail, 

To  reach  the  distant  coast ; 
The  breath  of  heav'n  must  swell  the  sail, 

Or  all  the  toil  is  lost. 


THE  MODERN  PATRIOT. 


Rebellion  is  my  theme  all  day  ; 

1  only  wish  'twould  come 
(As  who  knows  but  perhaps  it  may  f) 

A  little  nearer  home. 

Yon  roaring  boys,  who  rave  and  figh 

On  t'other  side  th'Atlantic, 
I  always  held  them  in  the  right, 

But  most  so  when  most  frantic. 

When  lawless  mobs  insult  the  court, 

That  man  shall  be  my  toast, 
If  breaking  windows  be  the  sport, 

Who  bravely  breaks  the  most. 

But  O !  for  him  my  fancy  culls 
The  choicest  flow'rs  she  bears. 

Who  constitutionally  pulls 
Your  house  about  your  ears. 

Such  civil  broils  are  my  delight, 

Though  some  folks  can't  endure  them, 

Who  say  the  mob  are  mad  outright, 
And  that  a  rope  must,  cure  them. 

A  rope !  I  wish  we  patriots  had 

Such  strings  for  all  who  need  'em-^ 

What  1  hang  a  man  for  going  madl 
Then  farewell  British  freedom. 


136 


ON  OBSERVING  SOME 

NAMES  OF  LITTLE  NOTE 

RECORDED   IN 
THE    BIOGRAPHIA    BRITANNICA 


Oh,  fond  attempt  to  give  a  deathless  lot 
To  names  ignoble,  born  to  be  forgot  1 
In  vain,  recorded  in  historic  page, 
They  court  the  notice  of  a  future  age  : 
Those  twinkling  tiny  lustres  of  the  land 
Drop  one  by  one  from  Fame's  neglecting  hand ; 
Lethaean  gulfs  receive  them  as  they  fall, 
And  daik  oblivion  soon  absorbs  them  all. 

So  when  a  child,  as  playful  children  use, 
Has  burnt  to  tinder  a  stale  last  year's  news, 
The  flame  extinct,  he  views  the  roving  fire — 
There  goes  my  lady,  and  there  goes  the  squire, 
There  goes  the  parson,  oh  illustrious  spark ! 
And  there,  scarce  less  illustrious,  goes  the  clerk  t 


REPORT 

OP    AN   ADJUDGED   CASE,    NOT   TO   BE   FOUND   IN 
ANY    OF    THE    BOOKS. 

Between  Nose  and  Eyes  a  strange  contest  arose, 
The  spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wrong ; 

The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
To  which  the  said  spectacles  ought  to  belong. 

So  Tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause 

With  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  wigtull  of  learning] 

While  chief  baron  Ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws, 
So  fam'd  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning." 


137 

It  behalf  of  the  Nose  it  will  quickly  appear, 

And  your  lordship,  he  said,  will  undoubtedly  find, 

That  the  Nose  has  had  spectacles  always  in  wear, 
Which  amounts  to  possession  time  out  of  mind. 

Then  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court — 

Your  lordship  observes  they  are  made  with  a  straddle, 

As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  Nose  is  ;  in  short, 
Design'd  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle. 

Again,  would  your  lordship  a  moment  suppose 

('Tis  a  case  that  has  happen'd,  and  may  be  again) 

That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  nose, 

Pray  who  would,  or  who  could,  wear  spectacles  rhen  f 

On  the  whole  it  appears,  and  my  argument  shews, 
With  a  reasoning  the  court  will  never  condemn, 

That  the  spectacles  plainly  were  made  for  the  Nose, 
And  the  Nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them. 

Then  shifting  his  side  (as  a  lawyer  knows  how), 
He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes: 

But  what  were  his  arguments  f  w  people  know, 

For  the  court  did  not  think  they  were  equally  wise. 

So  his  lordship  decreed  with  a  grave  solemn  tone, 
Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but — 

That,  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  spectacles  on, 
By  daylight  or  candlelight — Eyes  should  be  shut  I 


ON  THE  BURNING 

OF 

LORD  MANSFIELD'S  LIBRARY, 

TOGETHER    WITH    HIS    MSS. 
by  the  mob,  in  the  month  of  June,  1780. 

So  then — the  Vandals  of  our  isle, 

Sworn  foes  to  sense  and  law, 
Have  burnt  to  dust  a  nobler  pile 

Than  ever  Roman  saw  1 

And  MURRAY  sighs  o'er  Pope  and  Swift, 

And  many  a  treasure  more, 
The  well-judg'd  purchase,  and  the  gift, 

That  grac'd  his  letter'd  store. 

N  2 


138 

Their  pages  mangled,  burnt  and  torn, 

The  loss  was  liis  alone  ; 
But  ages  yet  to  come  shall  mourn. 


The  burning  of  his  own. 


ON  THE  SAME. 

When  wit  and  genius  meet  their  doom 

In  all  devouring  flame, 
They  tell  us  of  the  fate  of  Rome, 

And  bid  us  fear  the  same. 

O'er  MURRAY'S  loss  the  Muses  wept, 

They  felt  the  rude  alarm, 
Yet  bless'd  the  guardian  care  that  kept 

His  sacred  head  from  harm. 

There  Mem'ry,  like  the  bee,  that's  fed 

From  Flora's  balmy  store, 
The  quintessence  of  all  he  read 

Had  treasur'd  up  before. 

The  lawless  herd,  with  fury  blind, 
Have  done  him  cruel  wrong ; 

The  flow'rs  are  gone— but  still  we  find 
The  honey  on  his  tongue 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  WORLD  REPROVED 

OR 

HYPOCRISY    UETECTED  *. 

Thus  says  the  prophet  of  the  Turk, 
Good  Mussulman,  abstain  from  pork; 
There  is  a  part  in  ev'ry  swine 
No  friend  or  follower  of  mine 
May  taste,  whate'er  his  inclination, 
On  pain  of  excommunication. 

»  It  may  be  proper  to  inform  the  reader,  that   tji;   pi:-       !. as  already 
appeared  in  print,   having  found  its  way,    though  with  some  unneee'sar 
additions   oy  an  unknown  hand,   into   the  Leed's  Journal,  without  the 
author's  privity. 


139 

Such  Mahomet's  mysterious  charge, 
And  thus  he  left  the  point  at  large. 
Had  he  the  sinful  part  express'd, 
They  mig>ht  with  safety  eat  the  rest; 
But  for  one  piece  they  thought  it  hard 
From  the  whole  hog  to  be  debarr'd; 
And  set  their  wit  at  work  to  find 
What  joint  the  prophet  had  in  mind. 
Much  controversy  straight  arose, 
These  choose  the  hack,  the  belly  those ; 
By  son;e  'tis  confidently  said 
He  meant  not  to  forbid  the  head; 
While  others  at  that  doctrine  rai) 
And  piously  prefer  the  tail. 
Thus,  conscience  freed  from  ev'ry  clog, 
Mahometans  eat  up  the  hog. 

You  laugh — 'tis  well — The  tale  applied 
May  make  you  laugh  on  t'other  side. 
Renounce  the  world — the  preacher  cries. 
W7e  do — a  multitude  replies. 
While  one  as  innocent  regards 
A  snug  and  friendly  game  at  cards ; 
And  one,  whatever  you  may  say, 
Can  see  no  evil  in  a  play ; 
Some  love  a  concert,  or  a  race  ; 
And  others  shooting,  and  the  chace. 
Revil'd  and  lov'd,  renounc'd  and  follow'd, 
Thus,  bit  by  bit,  the  world  is  swallow'd ; 
Each  thinks  his  neighbour  makes  too  free, 
Yet  likes  a  slice  as  well  as  he  ; 
With  sophistry  their  sauce  they  sweeten, 
Till  quite  from  tail  to  snout  'tis  eaten. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
MRS.  (now  LADY)  THROCKMORTON'S 

BULFINCH. 

Ye  nymphs !  if  e'er  your  eyes  were  red 
With  tears  o'er  h;<pless  fav'rites  shed, 

O  share  Maria's  grief! 
Her  fav'rite,  even  in  his  cage, 
(What  will  not  hunger's  cruel  rage  ?) 

Assassin' d  by  a  thief. 


140 

Where  Rhenus  strays  his  vines  among, 
The  egg  was  laid  from  which  he  sprung; 

And,  though  by  nature  mute, 
Or  only  with  a  whistle  blest, 
Well-taught  he  all  the  sounds  expressM 

Of  flagelet  or  flute. 

The'honors  of  his  ebon  poll 

Were  brighter  than  the  sleekest  mole; 

His  bosom  of  the  hue 
With  which  Aurora  decks  the  skies, 
When  piping  winds  shall  soon  arise, 

To  sweep  away  the  dew. 

Above,  below,  in  all  the  house, 
Dire  foe  alike  of  bird  and  mouse, 

No  cat  had  leave  to  dwell  ; 
And  Bully's  cage  supported  stood 
On  props  of  smoothest-shaven  wood, 

Large  built,  and  lattic'd  well. 

Well-lattic'd — but  the  grate,  alas ! 
Not  rough  with  wire  of  steel  or  brass, 

For  Bully's  plumage  sake, 
Cut  smooth  with  wands  from  Ouse's  side, 
With  which,  when  neatly  peel'd  and  dried, 

The  swains  their  baskets  make. 

Night  veil'd  the  pole,  all  seem'd  secure  : 
When  led  by  instinct  sharp  and  sure, 

Subsistence  to  provide, 
A  beast  forth  sallied  on  the  scout, 
Long- back' d,  long  tail'd,  with  whisker'd  snout) 

And  badger-color'd  hide. 

He,  ent'ring   at  the  study  door, 
Its  ample  area  'gan  explore  ; 

And  something  in  the  wind 
Conjectur'd,  sniffing  round  and  round, 
Better  than  all  the  books  he  found, 

Food  chiefly  for  the  mind. 

• 

Just  then,  by  adverse  fate  impress'd, 
A  dream  disturb'd  poor  Bully's  rest ; 

In  sleep  he  seem'd  to  view 
A  rat  fast  clinging  to  the  cage, 
And,  screaming  at  the  sad  presage, 

Awoke  and  found  it  true. 


For,  aided  both  by  ear  and  scent, 

Right  to  his  mark  the  monster  went — 
Ah  !  muse,  forbear  to  speak 

Minute  the  horrors  that  ensued  ; 

His  teeth  were  strong,  the  cage  was  wood- 
He  left  poor  Bully's  beak. 

O  had  he  made  that  too  his  prey ; 
That  beak,  whence  issued  many  a  lay 

Of  srjch  mellifluous  tone, 
Might  have  repaid  him  well,  I  wote 
For  silencing  so  sweet  a  throat, 

Fast  stuck  within  his  own. 

Maria  weeps — the  Muses  mourn — 
So  when,  by  Bacchanalians  torn, 

On  Thracian  Hebrus'  side 
The  tree-enchcinter  Orpheus  fell, 
His  head  alone  remain'd  to  tell 

The  cruel  death  he  died. 


THE     ROSE. 

The  rose  had  been  wash'd,  just  wash'd  111   a  show'r, 

Which  Mary  to  Anna  convey'd, 
The  plentiful  moisture  encumber'd  the  flow'r, 

And  weigh'd  do  AH  its  beautiful  head. 

The  cup  was  all  fill'd,  and  the  leaves  were  all  wet, 

And  it  seeiu'd  10  a  fanciful  view, 
To  weep  for  the  buds  it  had  .eft  with  regr  t, 

On  the  flourishing  bush  where  it  grew. 

I  hastily  seiz'd  it,  unfit  as  it  was 

For  a  nosegay,  so  dripping  and  drown  M, 

And  swinging  it  rudely,  too  rudely,  alas  ' 
I  snapp'd  it,  it  fell  to  the  ground. 

And  such,  I  exclainrd,  is  the  pitiless  part 

Some  act  by  the  delicate  mind, 
Regardless  of  wringing  and  breaking  a  l.ecirt 

Already  to  sorrow  resign'd. 

This  elegant  rose,  had  I  shaken  it  less, 

Might  have  bloom'd  with  its  owner  a  while, 

And  the  tear,  that  is  wip'd  with  a  little  address, 
May  he  folio w'd  perhaps  by  a  siuilfl. 


142 


THE     DOVES. 

Reas'ning  at  ev'ry  step  he  treads. 

Man  yet  mistakes  his  way, 
While  meaner  things,  whom  instinct  leads?, 

Are  rarely  known  to  stray. 

One  silent  eve  I  wander'd  late, 

And  hearJ  the  voice  of  love  ; 
The  turtle  thus  address'd  her  mate, 

And  sooth 'd  the  list'ning  dove  : 

Our  mutual  bnnd  of  faith  and  truth 

No  time  shall  disengage, 
Those  blessings  of  our  eai  ly  youth 

Shall  cheer  our  latest  age : 

While  innocence  without  disguise. 

And  constancy  sincere, 
Shall  fill  the  circles  of  those  eyes, 

And  mine  can  read  them  there  ; 

Those  ills,  that  wait  on  all  below, 

Shall  ne'er  be  felt  by  me, 
Or  gently  felt,  and  only  so, 

As  being  shar'd  with  thee. 

When  lightnings  flash  among  the  trees, 

Or  kites  are  hov'ring  near, 
I  fear  lest  thee  alone  they  seize, 

And  know  no  other  fear. 

'Tis  the^n  I  feel  myself  a  wife, 

And  press  thy  wedded  side, 
Resolv'd  a  union  form'd  for  life 

Death  never  shall  divide. 

But  oh  !  if  fickle  and  unchaste, 

(Forgive  a  transient  thought) 
Thou  could  become  unkind  at  last, 

And  scorn  thy  present  lot, 

No  need  of  lightnings  from  on  high, 

Or  kites  with  cruel  beak  ; 
Denied  til' endearments  of  thine  eye, 

This  widow'd  heart  would  break. 


143 

Thus  sang  the  sweet  sequester' d  bird* 

Soft  as  the  passing  wind  ; 
And  I  recorded  what  I  heard, 

A  lesson  for  mankind. 


A  FABLE. 

A  raven,  while  with  glossy  breast 

Her  new-laid  eggs  she  fondly  press'd, 

And,  on  her  wickerwork  high  mounted, 

Her  chickens  prematurely  counted, 

(A  fault  philosophers  might  blame 

If  quite  exempted  from  the  same,) 

Enjoy'd  at  ease  the  genial  day  ; 

'Twas  April,  as  the  bumpkins  say, 

The  legislature  call'd  it  May. 

But  suddenly  a  wind  as  high, 

As  ever  swept  a  winter  sky, 

Shook  the  young  leaves  about  her  ears, 

And  fill'd  her  wkh  a  thousand  fears, 

Lest  the  rude  blast  should  snap  the  boughf 

And  spread  her  golden  hopes  below. 

But  just  at  eve  the  blowing  weather 

And  all  her  fears  were  hush'd  together: 

And  now,  quoth  poor  unthinking  Ralph, 

'Tis  over,  and  the  brood  is  safe  ; 

(For  ravens,  though  as  birds  of  omen 

They  teach  both  conj'rers  and  old  women, 

To  tell  us  what  is  to  befall, 

Can't  prophesy  themselves  at  all.) 

The  morning  came,  when  neighbour  Hodge, 

Who  long  had  mark'd  her  airy  lodge 

And  destin'd  all  the  treasure  there 

A  gift  to  his  expecting  fair, 

Climb'd  like  a  squirrel  to  his  dray, 

And  bore  the  worthless  prize  away. 

MORAL. 

'Tis  Providence  alone  secures 

In  ev'ry  change  both  mine  and  yours: 

Safety  consists  not  in  escape 

From  dangers  of  a  trigntful  shape  ; 

An  earthquake  may  be  bid  to  spare 

The  man,  that's  strangled  by  a  hair. 


Fate  steals  along  with  silent  tread, 
Found  oft'nest  in  what  least  we  dread ; 
Frowns  in  the  storm  with  angry  brow, 
But  in  the  sunshine  strikes  the  blow. 


A  COMPARISON. 

The  lapse  of  time  and  rivers  is  the  same, 

Both  speed  their  journey  with  a  restless  stream ; 

The  silent  pace,  with  which  they  steal  away, 

No  wealth  can  bribe,  nor  pray'rs  persuade  to  stay ; 

Alike  irrevocable  both  when  past, 

And  a  wide  ocean  swallows  both  at  last. 

Though  each  resemble  each  in  ev'ry  part, 

A  difference  strikes  at  length  the  musing  heart : 

Streams  never  flow  in  vain  ;  where  streams   abound 

How  laughs  the  land  with  various   plenty  crown'd 

But  time,  that  should  enrich  the  nobler  mind, 

Neglected,  leaves  a  weary  waste  behind. 


ANOTHER. 

ADDRESSED    TO    A    YOUNG    LADY. 

Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade, 
Apt  emblem  of  a  virtuous  maid- 
Silent  and  chaste  she  steals  along, 
far  from  the  world's  gay  busy  throng; 
With  gentle  yet  prevailing  force, 
Intent  upon  her  destin'd  course ; 
Graceful  and  useful  all  she  does, 
Blessing  and  blest  where'er  she  goes, 
Pure-bosom'd  as  that  \vat'ry  glass, 
And  heav'n  reflected  in  her  face. 


145 


THE  POETS  NEW-YEAR'S  GIFT. 
To  MRS.  (now  LADY)  THROCKMORTON. 

Maria  !   I  have  ev'ry  good 

For  thee  wish'd  many  a  time, 
Both  sad  and  in  a  cheerful  mood, 

But  never  yet  in  rhyme. 

To  wish  thee  fairer  is  no  need, 
More  prudent,  or  more  sprightly, 

Or  more  ingenious,  or  more  freed 
From  temper-flaws  unsightly. 

What  favor  then,  not  yet  possess'd, 

Can  I  for  thee  require, 
In  wedded  love  already  blest, 

To  thy  whole  heart's  desire  ; 

None  here  is  happy  but  in  part : 

Full  bliss  is  bliss  divine: 
There  dwells  some  wish  in  ev'ry  heart, 

And  doubtless  one  in  thine. 

That  wish,  on  some  fair  future  day, 
Which  Fate  shall  brightly  gild, 

('Tis  blameless,  be  it  what  it  may,) 
I  wish  it  all  fulfill'd. 


ODE  TO  APOLLO. 

ON    AN    INKGLASS    ALMOST    DRIED    IN    THE    6UK. 

Patron  of  all  those  luckless  brains, 
That,  to  the  wrong  side  leaning, 

Indite  much  metre  with  much  pains, 
And  little  or  no  meaning  : 

Ah  why,  since  oceans,  nvers,  streams, 

That  water  all  the  nations, 
Pay  tribute  to  thy  gloiious  beams, 

In  constant  exhalations, 


146 

Why,  stooping  from  the  noon  of  day, 

Too  covetous  of  drink, 
Apollo,  hast  ihou  stol'n  away 

A  poet's  drop  of  ink  ? 

Upborne  into  the  viewless  air, 

Jt  floats  a  vapor  now, 
Impell'd  through  regions  dense  and  rare, 

By  all  the  winds  that  blow. 

Ordain'd  perhaps,  ere  summer  flies, 
Combin'd  with  millions  more, 

To  form  an  Ins  in  the  skies, 
Though  black  and  foul  before. 


o 


Illustrious  drop  !   and  happy  then 

Beyond  the  h  ppiest  lot, 
Of  all  that  ever  pass'il  my  pen, 

So  soon  to  be  forgot ! 

Phoebus,  if  such  be  thy  design, 

To  place  it  in  thy  bow, 
Give  wit,  that  what  is  left  may  shin* 

With  equal  grace  below. 


PAIRING  TIME  ANTICIPATED. 

A  FABLE. 

I  shall  not  ask  Jean  Jacques  liousseau,* 
If  birds  confabulate  or  no  ; 
'Tis  clear,  that  they  were  always  able 
To  hold  discourse,  at  least  iu  fable; 
And  e'en  the  child,  who  knows  no  better 
Than  to  interpret  by  the  letter, 
A  story  of  a  cock  and  bull, 
Must  have  a  most  uncommon  skull. 

It  chanc'd  then,  on  a  winter's  day, 
But  warm,  and  bright,  and  calm  as  May, 
The  birds,  conceiving  a  design 
To  forestal  sweet  St.  Valentine, 

*  It  was  one  of  the  whimsical  speculations  of  this  philosopher,  that 
all  fables  which  ascribe  reason  and  speech  to  animals  should  be  withheld 
from  children,  as  being  only  vehicles  of  deception.  But  what  child  was 
evci  deceived  by  them,  or  can  be,  against  the  evidence  of  his  senses? 


147 

In  many  an  orchard,  copse,  and  grove, 

Assembled  on  art  airs  of  'ove, 

Anil  with  much  twitter  and  much  chatter, 

Began  to  agnate  the  matter. 

At  length  a  Bulh'nch,  who  could  boast 

Mor"  vc-.rs  and  wisdom  than  the  most, 

Kntreated,  ep'ning  wiile  his  beak, 

A  moment's  liberty  to  spvak  : 

And,  silence  publicly  enjoin'd, 

Deliver'd  brierlv  thus  his  mind  : 

.My  friends!   be  cautious  how  ye  treat 
The  subject  upon  which  we  meet ; 
1  fear  we  shall  have  winter  yet. 

A   Finch,  whose  tongue  knew  no  control. 
With  golden  wing,  and  satin  poll, 
A  last  year's  bird,  who  ne'er  had  tried 
\Vh  u  marriage  means,  thus  pert  replied: 

Methinks  the  gentleman,  quoth  she, 
Opposite  in  the  ;>pple-tree, 
By  his  good  will  would  keep  us  single 
Till  yonder  heav'n  and  earth  shall  mingle, 
Or  (winch  is  likelier  to  befall) 
Till  death  exterminate  us  all. 
J  M'.any  without  more  ado, 
My  dear  Dick  Redcap,  what  sny  you? 

Dick  heard,  and  tweedling,  ogling,  bridling, 
Turning  short  round,  strutting  and  sideling, 
Attested,  glad,  his  approbation 
Of  an  immediate  conjugation. 
Their  sentiments  so  well  express'd, 
Inrtueiic'd  mightily  the  rest  ; 
All  pair'd,  and  each  pair  built  a  nest 

But  though  the  birds  were  thus  in  haste, 
The  leaves  came  on  not  quite  so  fast, 
And  Destiny,  that  sometmits  bears 
AH  ;<-pect  st<  in  on  man's  affairs, 
Not  altogether  smil'd  on  tlieiis. 
The  wind    of  late  hrer-th'd  gently  forth, 
Now  shlfiM  east,  and  east  hy  north  ; 
Bare  t  ee.s  . -n;l  shrubs  but  ill.  you  kimw, 
Could  shehe:   them  f.ont  rain  or  snow, 
Stepping  into  their  nes-ts,  they  peddled, 
Tht-niseives  wei  e  ch  ll'd,  their  eggs  were  addled, 
Soon  ev'ry  father-bird  and  mother 
drew  (|iianelsome,  and  peck'd  each  other, 
laited  wi  i  hi  ait  the  least  regret, 
Kx     j)t  that  they  had  ever  met, 
A    i-'  loan i 'd  in  tuture  to  he  wiser, 
Than  to  neglect  a  good  adviser 


r 


148 
MORAL. 


Misses  !  the  tale  that  I  relate 

This  lesson  seems  to  carry- 
Choose  not  alone  a  proper  mate, 
But  proper  time  to  marry. 


THE  DOG  AND  THE  WATER-LILY 

NO  FABLE. 


The  noon  was  shady,  and  soft  airs 

Swept  Ouse's  silent  tide, 
When,  'scap'd  from  literary  cares, 

I  wander'd  on  his  side. 

My  spaniel,  prettiest  of  his  race, 

And  high  in  pedigree, 
(Two  nymphs*  adorn'd  with  ev'ry  grace 

That  spaniel  found  for  me,) 

Now  wanton'd  lost  in  flags  and  reeds, 

Now  starting  into  sight, 
Pursued  the  swallow  o'er  the  meads 

With  scarce  a  slower  flight. 

It  was  the  time  when  Ouse  display'd 

His  lilies  newly  blown  ; 
Their  beauties  I  intent  survey'd, 
And  one  1  wish'd  my  own. 

With  cane  extended  far  I  sought 

To  steer  it  close  to  land ; 
But  still  the  prize,  though  nearly  caught) 

Escap'd  my  eager  hand. 

Beau  mark'd  my  unsuccessful  pains 

•With  fix'd  considerate  face, 
And  puzzling  set  his  puppy  brains 

To  comprehend  the  case. 

But  with  a  cherup  clear  and  strong, 

Dispersing  all  his  dream, 
I  thence  withdrew,  an  1  follow'd  long 

The  windings  of  the  stream. 

*  Sir  Robert  Gunning's  daughterg. 


119 

My  ramble  ended,  I  return'd  ; 

tit'cu,  Totting  far  before, 
The  Hoating  wreath  again  cliscern'd 

And  plunging  left  the  shore. 

I  saw  him  with  that  lily  cropp'd 

Impatient  swim  to  meet 
My  quick  approach,  and  soon  he  dupp'd 

The  treasure  at  my  feet. 

Charm'd  with  the  sight,  the  world,  I  cried, 

Shall  hear  of  this  thy  deed  : 
My  dog  shul1  .noruty  the  pride 

Of  man'.,  superior  breed  : 

But  chief  myself  1  will  enjoin, 

Awake  at  duty's  call, 
To  show  a  love  as  prompi  as  thine 

To  Him  who  gives  me  all. 


THE  POET,  THE  OYSTER,  AND 
SENSITIVE  PLANT. 

An  Oyster,  cast  upon  the  shore, 
Was  heard,  though  never  heard  before, 
Complaining  in  a  speech  well  worded — 
And  worthy  thus  to  be  recorded : — 

Ah,  hapless  wretch  !  condemned  to  dwell 
For  ever  in  my  native  shell ; 
Ordain'd  to  move  when  others  please, 
Not  for  my  own  content  or  ease  ; 
But  toss'd  and  buffeted  about, 
Now  in  the  water  and  now  out- 
'Twere  better  to  be  born  a  stone, 
Of  ruder  shape,  and  feeling  none, 
Than  with  a  tenderness  like  mine, 
And  sensibilities  so  fine  ! 
1  envy  that  unfeeling  shrub, 
Fast-rooted  against  ev'ry  rub. 
The  plant  he  meant  grew  not  far  off, 
And  IV It  the  sneer  with  scorn  enough  ; 
Was  hurt,  disgusted,  mortified, 
A.nd  with  asjRvuy  replied. 

When,  cry  the  botanists,  and  stare, 
Did  plants  call'd  sensitive  grow  there? 

o2 


ISO 

No  matter  when — a  poet's  muse  is 

To  make  them  grow  just  where  she  choose*. 

You  shapeless  nothing  in  a  dish, 
You  that  are  but  almost  a  fish, 
]  scorn  your  coarse  insinuation, 
And  have  most  plentiful  occasion, 
To  wish  myself  the  rock  I  view, 
Or  such  another  dolt  as  you  : 
For  many  a  grave  and  learned  clerk, 
And  many  a  gay  unletter'd  spark, 
"With  curious  touch  examines  me, 
If  I  can  feel  as  well  as  he  ; 
And  when  I  bend,  retire,  and  shrink, 
Says — Well,  'tis  more  than  one  would  think! 
Thus  life  is  spent  (oh  fie  upon't!) 
In  being  touch'd,  and  crying — Don't! 

A  poet,  in  his  ev'ning  walk, 
O'erheard  and  check'd  this  idle  talk. 
And  your  fine  sense,  he  said,  and  yours, 
"Whatever  evil  it  endures, 
Deserves  not,  if  so  soon  offended, 
Much  to  be  pitied  or  commended. 
Disputes,  though  short,  are  far  too  long, 
Where  both  alike  are  in  the  wrong; 
Your  feelings  in  their  full  amount, 
Are  all  upon  your  own  account. 

You,  in  your  grotto-work  enclos'd, 
Complain  of  being  thus  expos'd  ; 
Yet  nothing  feel  in  that  rough  coat, 
Save  when  the  knife  is  at  your  throat, 
Wherever  driv'n  by  wind  or  tide, 
Exempt  from  ev'ry  ill  beside. 
And  as  for  you,  my  Lady  Squeamish, 
Who  reckon  ev'ry  touch  a  blemish, 
If  all  the  plants,  that  can  be  found 
Embellishing  the  scene  around, 
Should  droop  and  wither  where  they  grow, 
You  would  not  feel  at  all— not  you. 
The  noblest  minds  their  virtue  prove 
By  pity,  sympathy,  and  love  : 
These,  these  are  i'eelings  truly  fine, 
And  prove  their  owner  half  divine. 

His  censure  reach'd  them  as  he  dealt  it, 
And  each  by  shrinking  show'd  he  felt  it. 


151 


THE  SHRUBBERY. 

WRITTEN    IN    A    TIME    OF    AFFLICTION. 

Oh,  happy  shades — to  me  unblest! 

Friendly  to  peace,  but  not  to  me! 
How  ill  the  scene  that  offers  rest, 

And  heart  that  cannot  rest,  agree ! 

This  glassy  stream,  that  spreading  pine, 
Those  alders  quiv'ring  to  the  breeze, 

Might  soothe  a  soul  less  hurt  than  mine, 
And  please,  if  any  thing  could  please. 

But  fix'd  unalterable  Care 

Foregoes  not  what  she  feels  within, 

Shows  the  same  sadness  ev'ry  where, 
And  slights  the  season  and  the  scene. 

For  all  that  pleas'd  in  wood  or  lawn, 

While  Peace  possess'd  these  silent  bow'rs, 

Her  animating  smile  withdrawn, 
Has  lost  its  beauties  and  its  pow'rs. 

The  saint  or  moralist  should  tread 

This  moss-grown  alley  musing,  slow  ; 

They  seek  like  me  the  secret  shade, 
But  not  like  me  to  nourish  woe ! 

Me  fruitful  scenes  and  prospects  waste 

Alike  admonish  not  to  roam  ; 
These  tell  me  of  enjoyments  past, 

And  those  of  sorrows  yet  to  come. 


THE  WINTER  NOSEGAY. 

What  Nature,  alas  !  has  denied 

To  the  delicate  growth  of  our  isle, 
Art  has  in  a  measure  supplied, 

And  Winter  is  deck'd  with  a  smile 
See,  Mary,  what  beauties  I  bring 

From  the  shelter  of  that  sunny  shed, 
Where  the  flow'rs  have  the  charts  of  the  spring, 

Though  abroad  they  are  frozen  and  dead. 


152 

'Tis  a  bow'r  of  Arcadian  sweets, 

\\here  Flora  is  still  in  her  prime, 
A  fortress' to  which  she  retreats 

From  the  cruel  assaults  of  the  clime 
While  Earth  wears  a  mantle  of  snow, 

These  pinks  are  as  fresh  and  as  gay, 
As  the  t'airtst  and  sweetest  that  blow 

On  the  beautiful  bosom  of  May. 

See  how  they  have  safely  surviv'd 

The  frowns  of  a  sky  so  severe ; 
Such  Mary's  true  love,  that  has  liv'd 

Through  many  a  turbulent  year. 
The  charms  of  the  late  blowing  rose 

Seem  grac'd  with  a  livelier  hue, 
And  the  winter  of  sorrow  best  shows 

The  truth  of  a  friend  such  as  you. 


MUTUAL    FORBEARANCE 

NECESSARY  TO  THE  HAPPINESS   OF  THE 
MARRIED  STATE. 

The  lady  thus  address'd  her  spouse  : — 
What  a  mere  dungeon  is  this  house ! 
By  no  means  large  enough ;  and  was  it, 
Yet  this  dull  room,  and  that  dark  closet, 
Those  hangings  with  their  worn-out  graces, 
Long  beards,  long  noses,  and  pale  faces, 
Are  such  an  antiquated  scene, 
They  overwhelm  me  with  the  spleen. 
Sir  Humphrey,  shooting  in  the  dark, 
Makes  answer  quite  beside  the  mark: 
No  doubt,  my  dear,  I  bade  him  come, 
Engag'd  myself  to  be  at  home, 
And  shall  expect  him  at  the  door, 
Precisely  when  the  clock  strikes  four. 

You  are  so  deaf,  the  lady  cried, 
(And  rais'd  her  voice,  and  frown'd  beside,) 
You  are  so  sadly  deaf,  my  dear, 
What  shall  I  do  to  make  you  hear  ? 

Dismiss  poor  Harry  !  he  replies  ; 
Some  people  are  more  nice  than  wise : 


153 

For  one  slight  trespass  all  this  stir  ? 
What  it' he  did  ride  whip  and  spur, 
'Twas  but  a  mile — your  fav'rite  horse 
Will  never  look  one  hair  the  worse. 

Well,  I  protest  'tis  past  all  bearing- 
Child  1   I  am  rather  hard  of  hearing — 
Yes,  truly  ;  one  muse  scream  and  bawl: 
I  tell  you,  you  can't  hear  at  all ! 
Then,  with  a  voice  exceeding  low, 
No  matter  if  you  hear  or  no. 

Alas  !  and  is  domestic  strife, 
That  sorest  ill  of  human  life, 
A  plague  so  little  to  be  fear'd, 
As  to  be  wantonly  incurr'd, 
To  gratify  a  fretful  passion, 
On  ev'ry  trivial  provocation  ? 
The  kindest  and  the  happiest  pair 
Will  find  occasion  to  forbear  ; 
And  something,  ev'ry  day  they  live, 
To  pity,  and  perhaps  forgive. 
But  if  infirmities,  that  fall 
In  common  to  the  lot  of  all, 
A  blemish  or  a  sense  impair'd, 
Are  crimes  so  little  to  be  spar'd, 
Then  farewell  all  that  must  create 
The  comfort  of  the  wedded  state  ; 
Instead  of  harmony,  'tis  jar, 
And  tumult,  and  intestine  war. 

The  love  that  cheers  life's  latest  stage, 
Proof  against  sickness  and  old  age, 
Preserv'd  by  virtue  from  declension, 
Becomes  not  weary  of  attention  ; 
But  lives,  when  that  exterior  grace, 
Which  first  inspir'd  the  flame,  decays. 
'Tis  gentle,  delicate,  and  kind, 
To  faults  compassionate  or  blind, 
And  will  with  sympathy  endure 
Those  evils,  it  would  gladly  cure : 
But  angry,  coarse,  and  harsh  expression 
Shows  love  to  be  a  mere  profession; 
Proves  that  the  heart  is  none  of  his, 
Or  soon  expels  him  if  it  is. 


154 


THE  NEGRO'S   COMPLAINT. 


Forc'd  from  home  and  all  its  pleasures, 

Afric's  coast  I  left  forlorn; 
To  increase  a  stranger  s  treasures, 

O'er  the  raging  billows  borne. 
Men  from  England  bought  and  sold  me, 

Paid  my  price  in  paltiy  gold  ; 
But,  though  slave  they  have  enroll'd  me, 

Minds  are  never  to  be  sold. 

Still  in  thought  as  free  as  ever, 

What  are  England's  rights,  1  ask, 
Me  from  my  delights  to  sever, 

Me  to  torture,  me  to  task  ? 
Fleecy  locks  and  black  complexion 

Cannot  forfeit  Nature's  cLum  ; 
Skins  may  differ,  bur  affVction 

Dweils  in  white  and  black  the  same. 

Why  did  all -creating  Nature 

Make  the  plant,  for  which  we  toil? 
Sighs  must  fan  it,  tears  must  water, 

Sweat  of  ours  must  dress  the  soil. 
Think,  ye  masters  iron-hearted, 

Lolling  at  your  jovial  boards  ; 
Think  how  many  backs  have  smarted 

Fur  the  sweets  your  cane  affords. 

Is  there,  as  ye  sometimes  tell  us, 

Is  there  one,  who  reigns  on  high  ? 
Has  he  bid  you  buy  and  sell  us, 

Speaking  from  his  throne  the  sky  f 
Ask  him,  if  your  knotted  scourges, 

Matches,  blood-extorting  screws, 
Are  the  means  that  duty  urges, 

Agents  of  his  will  to  use  'I 

Hark  !  he  answers — wild  tornadoes, 

Strewing  yonder  sea  with  wrecks  ; 
Wasting  towns,  plantations,  meadows, 

Are  the  voice,  with  which  he  sueaiUk. 
He,  foreseeing  what  vexations 

Afnc's  sons  should  undergo, 
Fix'd  their  tyrants'  habitations 

Where  his  whirlwinds  answer — no. 


By  our  blood  in  Afric  wasted, 

Ere  our  necks  receiv'd  the  chain, 
By  the  mis'ries  that  we  tasted, 

Crossing  in  your  barks  the  main  ; 
By  our  surt"riu£S,  since  ye  brought  us 

To  the  man-degrading  mart ; 
All,  sustain'd  by  patience,  taught  us 

Only  by  a  broken  heart : 

Deem  our  nation  brutes  no  longer, 

Till  some  reason  ye  shall  find 
Worthier  of  regard,  and  stronger 

Than  the  color  of  our  kind. 
Slaves  of  gold,  whose  sordid  dealings 

Tarnish  all  your  boasted  pow'rs, 
Prove  that  you  have  human  feelings, 

Ere  you  proudly  question  ours  ! 


PITY  FOR  POOR  AFRICANS. 

1  Video  meliora  proboque, 
Deteriora  sequor/ — 

I  own  I  am  shock'd  at  the  purchase  of  slaves, 
And  fear  those  who  buy  them  and  sell   them,  are  knaves  ; 
What  I  hear  of  tbeir  hardships,  their  tortures,  and  groaivs, 
Is  almost  enough  to  draw  pity  from  stones. 

I  pity  them  greatly,  but  [  must  be  mum, 
For  how  could  we  do  without  sug;arand  rum? 
Especially  sugar,  so  needful  we  see  ? 
What,  give  up  our  desserts,  our  coffee,  and  tea! 

Besides,  if  we  do,  the  French,  Dutch,  and  Da-nes, 
\\  ill  heartily  thank  us,  no  doubt,  for  our  pains  ; 
If  we  do  not  buy  the  poor  creatures,  they  will, 
And  tortures  and  groans  will  be  multiplied  still. 

If  foreigners  likewise  would  give  up  the  trade, 
Much  more  in  behalf  of  your  wish  might  be  said  ; 
But,  while  they  get  riches  by  purchasing  blacks, 
Pray  tell  me  why  we  may  not  also  go  snacks  1 

Your  scruples  and  arguments  bring  to  my  mind 
A  story  so  pat,  you  may  think  it  is  coin'd, 
On  purpose  to  answer  you,  out  of  my  mint ; 
But  1  can  assure  you  I  saw  it  in  print. 


156 

A  youngster  at  school,  more  sedate tnau  the 
Had  once  his  integrity  put  to  the  test ; 
His  comrades  had  plotted  an  orchard  to  rob, 
And  ask'd  him  to  go  and  assist  in  the  job. 

He  was  shock'd,  sir,  like  you,  and  answer'd — 'Oh  no! 
What !  rob  our  good  neighbour  !   I  pray  you  don't  go| 
Besides,  the  man's  poor,  his  orchard's  his  bread, 
Then  think  of  his  children,  for  they  must  be  fed.' 

'  You  speak  very  fine,  and  you  look  very  grave, 
But  apples  we  want,  and  apples  we'll  have  ; 
If  you  will  go  with  us,  you  shall  have  a  share, 
If  not,  you  shall  have  neither  apple  nor  pear.' 

They  spoke,  and  Tom  ponder' d — '  I  see  they  will  go» 
Poor  man!  what  a  pity  to  injure  him  so! 
Poor  man !   I  would  save  him  his  fruit  if  I  could, 
But  staying  behind  will  do  him  no  good. 

'  If  the  matter  depended  alone  upon  me, 
His  apples  might  hang,  till  they  dropp'd  from  the  treef 
But,  since  they  will  take  them,  I  think  I'll  go  too, 
He  will  lose  none  by  me,  though  I  get  a  few.' 

His  scruples  thus  silenc'd  ;  Tom  felt  more  at  ease, 
And  went  with  his  comrades  the  apples  to  seize ; 
He  blam'd  and  protested,  but  join'd  in  the  plan: 
He  shar'd  in  the  plunder,  but  pitied  the  man. 


THE  MORNING  DREAM. 

'Twas  in  the  glad  season  fo  spring, 

Asleep  at  the  dawn  of  the  day, 
I  dream'd  what  I  cannot  but  sing, 

So  pleasant  it  seem'd  as  I  lay. 
I  dream'd,  that,  on  ocean  afloat, 

Far  hence  to  the  westward  I  sail'd, 
While  the  billows  high-lifted  the  boat, 

And  the  fresh- blowing  breeze  never  fail'd. 

In  the  steerage  a  woman  I  saw, 

Such  at  least  was  the  form  that  she  wore, 
Whose  beauty  impress'd  me  with  awe, 

Ne'er  taught  me  by  woman  before. 
She  sat,  and  a  shield  at  her  side 

Shed  light,  like  a  sun  on  the  waves, 
And,  smiling  divinely,  she  cried — 

*  I  go  to  make  freemen  of  slaves.'— 


157 

Then  raising  her  voice  to  a  strain 

The  sweetest  that  ear  ever  heard, 
She  sung  of  the  slave's  broken  chain, 

Wherever  her  glory  appear'd. 
Some  clouds,  which  had  over  us  hung, 

Fled,  chas'd  by  her  melody  clear, 
And  methought  while  she  liberty  sung, 

'Twas  liberty  only  to  hear. 

Thus  swiftly  dividing  the  flood, 

To  a  slave-cultur'd  island  we  came, 
Where,  a  demon,  her  enemy,  stood — 

Oppression  his  terrible  name. 
In  his  hand,  as  the  sign  of  his  sway, 

A  >courge  hung  with  lashes  he  bore, 
And  &  ood  looking  out  for  his  prey 

From  Africa's  sorrowful  shore. 

But  soon  as  approaching  the  land 

That  goddess-like  woman  he  view'd, 
The  scourge  he  let  fall  from  his  hand, 

With  blood  of  his  subjects  imbru'd. 
I  saw  him  both  sicken  and  die, 

And  the  moment  the  monster  expir'd, 
Heard  shouts  that  ascended  the  sky, 

For  thousands  with  rapture  inspir'd. 

Awaking,  how  could  I  but  muse 

At  what  such  a  dream  should  betide  ? 
But  soon  my  ear  caught  the  glad  news, 

Which  serv'd  my  weak  thought  for  a  guide-- 
That Britannia,  renown'd  o'er  the  waves 

For  the  hatred  she  ever  has  shown 
To  the  black-sceptred  rulers  of  slaves, 

Resolves  to  have  none  of  her  own. 


THE 

NIGHTINGALE  AND  GLOW-WORM, 

A  Nightingale,  that  all  day  long 
Had  cheer'd  the  village  with  his  song, 
Nor  yet  at  eve  his  note  suspended, 
Nor  yet  when  eventide  was  ended, 
Began  to  feel,  as  well  he  might, 
The  keen  demands  of  appetite ; 
When,  looking  eagerly  around, 
He  spied  far  off,  upon  the  ground, 


158 

A  something  shining  in  the  dark, 
And  knew  the  glow-worm  by  his  spark; 
So,  stooping  down  from  hawthorn  top, 
He  thoLig.it  to  put  him  in  his  crop. 
The  worm,  aware  of  his  intent, 
Harangu'd  him  thus,  right  eloquent — 

Did  you  admire  my  lamp,  quoth  he, 
As  much  as  1  your  minstrelsy, 
You  would  abhor  to  do  me  wrong, 
As  much  as  I  to  spoil  your  song  ; 
For  'twas  the  selfsame  pow'r  divine 
Taught  you  to  sing,  and  me  to  shine; 
That  you  with  music,  I  with  light, 
Might  beautify  and  cheer  the  night. 
The  songster  heard  his  short  oration, 
And,  warbling  out  his  approbation, 
Releas'd  him,  as  my  story  tells, 
And  found  a  supper  somewhere  else. 

Hence  jarring  sectaries  may  learn 
Their  real  int'rest  to  discern  ; 
That  brother  should  not  war  with  brother, 
And  worry  and  devour  each  other: 
But  sing  and  shine  by  sweet  consent, 
Till  life's  poor  transient  night  is  spent, 
Respecting  in  each  other's  case 
The  gifts  of  nature  and  of  grace. 

Those  Christians  best  deserve  the  name, 
Who  studiously  make  peace  their  aim ;       4 
Peace  both  the  duty  and  the  prize 
Of  him  that  creeps  and  him  that  flies 


ON  A  GOLDFINCH, 

STARVED  TO  DEATH  IN  HIS  CAGE. 

Time  was  when  I  was  free  as  air, 
The  thistle's  downy  seed  my  fare, 

My  drink  the  morning  dew ; 
I  perch'd  at  will  on  ev'ry  spray, 
My  form  genteel,  my  plumage  gay. 

My  stra  ns  for  ever  new. 


159 

Bu*  gaudy  plumage,  sprightly  strain, 
And  form  genteel,  were  all  in  vain, 

And  of  a  transient  date; 
For  cauglit,  and  cag'd,  and  starv'd  to  death, 
In  dying  sighs  my  little  breath 

Soon  pass'd  the  wiry  grate. 

Thanks,  gentle  swain,  for  all  my  woes. 
And  thanks  for  this  effectual  close 

And  cure  of  ev'ry  ill ; 
More  cruelty  could  none  express; 
And  I,  if  you  had  shown  me  less, 

Had  been  your  pris'ner  still. 


THE 

PINEAPPLE  AND  THE  BEE. 

The  pineapples,  in  triple  vow, 
Were  basking  hot,  and  all  in  blow; 
A  bee  of  most  discerning  taste, 
Perceiv'd  the  fragrance  as  he  pass'd, 
On  eager  wing  the  spoiler  came, 
And  search'd  for  crannies  in  the  frame, 
Urg'il  his  attempt  on  ev'ry  side, 
To  ev'ry  pane  his  trunk  applied  ; 
But  still  in  vain,  the  frame  was  tight, 
And  only  pervious  to  the  light : 
Thus  having  wasted  half  the  day, 
He  trimm'd  his  Might  another  way. 

Ale-thinks,  1  said,  in  thee  i  find 
The  sin  and  madness  of  mankind. 
To  joys  forbidden  man  aspires, 
Consumes  his  soul  with  vain  desires; 
Folly  the  spring  of  his  pursuit, 
And  disappointment  all  the  fruit. 
"While  Cyntiiio  ogles,  as  he  passes, 
The  nymph  between  two  chariot  glasses, 
She  is  thi'  pineapple,  and  he 
The  silly  unsuccessful  bee. 
The  maid,  who  views  with  pensive  air 
The  show-glass  fraught  with  glitt'ring  ware, 
Sees  watches,  bract  lets,  rings,  and  lockets, 
But  sighs  at  thought  of  empty  pockets  ; 


100 

Like  thine,  her  appetite  is  keen,  * 

B  it  ah,  the  cruel  glass  between  ! 

Our  dear  delights  are  often  such, 

Expos  M  to  view,  but  nat  to  touch  ; 

The  sight  our  foolish  heart  inflames, 

We  long  for  pineapples  in  frames  ; 

With  hopeless  wish  one  looks  and  lingers; 

One  breaks  the  glass,  and  cuts  his  fingers: 

But  they  whom  truth  and  wisdom  lead, 

Can  gather  honey  from  a  weed. 


HORACE. 

Book  II.  Ode  X. 

Receive,  dear  friend,  the  truths  I  teach, 
So  shall  thou  live  beyond  the  reach 

Of  adverse  Fortune's  pow'r; 
Not  always  tempt  the  distant  deep, 
Nor  always  timorously  creep 

Along  the  treach'rous  shore. 

He,  that  holds  fast  the  golden  mean, 
And  lives  contentedly  between 

The  little  and  the  great, 
Feels  not  the  wants  that  pinch  the  poor, 
Nor  pl.-igues  that  haunt  the  rich  man's  door, 

Imbitt'ring  all  his  state. 

The  t;  llest  pines  feel  most  the  pow'r 
Of  wintr\  blasts  ;  the  loftiest  tow'r 

Conu's  heaviest  to  the  ground; 
The  bolts,  that  spare  the  mountain's  side, 
His  tloud-capt  eminence  divide, 

And  spread  the  ruin  round. 

The  well  inform'd  philosopher 
Rejoices  with  a  wholesome  fear, 

And  hopes,  in  spite  of  pain  ,• 
If  W-n  er  bellow  from  the  north, 
Soon  the  sweet  Spring  conies  dancing  forth, 

And  Nature  laughs  again. 


161 

What  if  thine  licav'n  be  overcast, 
The  dark  appearance  will  not  last; 

Expect  a  brighter  sky. 
The  God  that  strings  the  silver  bow, 
Awakes  sometimes  the  muses  too, 

And  lays  his  arrows  by. 

If  hind'ranoes  obstruct  thy  way, 
Thy  magnanimity  display, 

And  let  thy  strength  be  seen; 
But  O  !   if  tortune  fill  thy  sail 
\Vith  more  than  a  propitious  gale, 

Take  half  thy  canvass  in. 


A  REFLECTION. 

ON    THE    FOREGOING   ODE. 

And  is  this  all  ?  Can  Reason  do  no  more, 

Than  bid  me  shun  the  deep,  and  dread  the  shore? 

Sweet  moralist !  afloat  on  life's  rough  sea, 

T^e  Christian  has  an  art  unknown  to  thee. 

He  holds  no  parLy  with  unmanly  fears; 

\Vhere  duty  bids,  he  confidently  steers, 

Faces  a  thousand  dangers  at  her  call, 

And,  trusting  in  his  God,  surmounts  them  all. 


THE  LILY  AND  THE  ROSE. 

The  nyrnph  must  lose  her  female  friend, 
If  more  admir'd  than  she — 

But  where  will  fierce  contention  end, 
If  flow'rs  can  disagree  ? 

Within  the  garden's  peaceful  scene 

Appear'd  two  lovely  foes, 
Aspiring  to  the  rank  of  queen, 

The  Lily  and  the  Rose. 
P  2 


10-2 

The  Rose  soon  redden'd  into  rage, 

And,  swelling  with  disdain, 
Appeal'd  to  many  a  poet's  page 

To  prove  her  right  to  reign. 

The  Lily's  height  bespoke  command, 

A  fair  imperial  flow'r  ; 
She  seem'd  design'd  for  Flora's  hand, 

The  sceptre  of  her  pow'r. 

This  civil  bick'ring  and  debate 
The  goddess  chanc'd  to  hear, 

And  flew  to  save,  ere  yet  too  late, 
The  pride  of  the  parterre. 

Yours  is,  she  said,  the  nobler  hue, 
And  yours  the  statelier  mien  ; 

And,  till  a  third  surpasses  you, 
Let  each  be  deen.'d  a  queen. 

Thus,  sooth'd  and  reconcil'd,  each  seeks 

The  fairest  British  fair : 
The  seat  of  empire  is  her  checks, 

They  reign  united  there. 


IDEM  LATINE  REDDITUM. 

Heu  inimicitias  quoties  parit  aemula  forma, 
Quam  raro  pulchrae  pulchra  placere  potest  ! 

Sed  fines  ultra  solitos  discordia  tendit, 
Cum  flores  ipsos  bilis  et  ira  movent. 

Hortus  ubi  dulces  praebet  tacitosque  recessus, 
Se  rapit  in  partes  gens  animosa  duas  ; 

Hie  sibi  regales  Amaryllis  Candida  cultus, 
Illic  purpureo  vindicat  ore  Rosa. 

Ira  Rosam  et  meritis  quaesita  superbia  tanguut, 
Multaque  ferventi  vix  cohibenda  sinu, 

Dum  sibi  fautorum  ciet  undique  nomina  vatum, 
•I usque  suum,  multo  carmine  fulta,  probat. 

Altior  emicat  ilia,  et  celso  vertice  nutat, 
Ceu  flores  inter  non  habitura  parem, 

Fastiditque  alios,  et  nata  videtur  in  usus 
Imperil,  sceptrum,  Flora  quod  ipsa  gerat. 


1G3 

Nee  Dea  non  sens  it  civilis  murmura  rixae, 
Cui  curaf  est  pictas  pandere  ruris  rprs, 
Delieiasque  suas  mmquam  non  proinpta  tueri, 
Dam  licet  et  locus  est,  ut  tueatur,  aclest. 

Et  tibi  forma  datur  procerior  omnibus,  inquit; 

Et  tibi,  principibus  qui  sok-t  esse.  color  ; 
Et  donee  vincat  quaedam  formosior  ambas, 

Et  tibi  reginae  nonien,  et  esto  tibi. 

His  ubi  sedatus  furor  est,  petit  utraque  nympham, 
Qualem  inter  Veneres  Anglia  sola  parit  ; 

Hanc  penes  imperium  est,  nihil  optant  ainplius, 

hujus 
Regnant  in  nitidis,  et  sine  lite,  genis. 


THE  POPLAR  FIELD. 

The  poplars  are  felled,  farewell  to  the  shade, 
And  the  whispering  sound  of  the  cool  colonnade  ; 
The  winds  play  no  longer  and  sing  in  the  leaves, 
Nor  Ouse  on  his  bosom  their  image  receives. 

Twelve  years  have  elaps'd,  since  I  last  took  a  view 
Of  my  favorite  field,  and  the  bank  where  they  grew ; 
And  now  in  the  grass  behold  they  are  laid, 
And  the  tree  is  my  seat,  that  once  lent  me  a  shade 

The  blackbird  has  fled  to  another  retreat, 
Where  the  hazels  afford  him  a  screen  from  the  heat, 
And  the  scene,  where  his  melody  charm'd  me  before, 
Resounds  vvith  his  sweet-flowing  ditty  no  more. 

My  fugitive  years  are  all  hasting  away, 

And  I  must  ere  long  lie  as  lowly  as  they, 

With  a  turf  on  my  breasf,  and  a  stone  at  my  liead, 

Ere  another  such  grove  shall  arise  in  its  stead. 

'Tis  a  sight  to  engage  me,  if  any  thing  can, 
To  muse  on  the  perishing  pleasures  of  man  ; 
Though  his  life  be  a  dre^m,  his  enjoyments,   I  see, 
Have  a  being  less  durable  even  than  he.  * 

*    Mr.   Cowper  afterwards  altered  this  last  stanza  in  the  following 
manner : — 

The  change  both  my  heart  and  my  fancy  employs, 
I  reflect  on  the  frailty  of  man,  and  his  joys  ; 
Short-lived  as  we  are,  yet  our  pleasures,  we  see, 
Have  a  still  shorter  date,  and  die  sooner  than  we. 


164 


IDEM  LATINE  REDDITUM. 

Populeae  cecidit  gratissima  copia  silrae, 
Conticuere  susurri,  omnisque  evanuit  umbr>., 
Null*  jam  levibus  se  miscent  frorivlibus  aura. 
Et  nulla  in  fluvio  ramorum  ludit  imago. 

Hei  mihi !  bis  senos  dum  luctu  torqueor  annc  s, 
His  cogor  silvis  suetoque  caret  e  recessu, 
Cum  serd  rediens,  stratasque  in  gramine  cernens, 
Insedi  arboribus,  sub  qucis  errare  solebam. 

Ah  ubi  nunc  merulae  cantus?  Felicior  ilium 
Silva  tegit,  durae  nondum  permissa  bipenni  ; 
Scilicet  exustos  colles  camposque  patentes 
Odit,  et  indignans  et  non  rediturus  abivit. 

Sed  qui  succisas  doleo  succidar  et  ipse, 
Et  prius  huic  parilis  quam  creverit  altera  silva 
Flebor,  et,  exequiis  parvis  donatus,  babebo 
Defixum  lapidem  tumulique  cubantis  acervum. 

Tarn  subitd  periisse  videns  tarn  digna  mancre, 
Agnosco  bumanas  sortes  et  tristia  fora — 
Sit  licet  ipse  brevis,  volucrique  simillimus  umbrge, 
Est  bomini  bxevior  citiusque  obitura  voluptas. 


VOTUM. 

O  Matutini  rores,  aurseque  salubres, 
O  nemora,  et  Isetae  rivis  felicibus  berbae, 
Graminei  colles,  et  amcenae  in  vallibus  umbra.1! 
Fata  modo  dederint  quas  olim  in  rure  paterno 
Delicias,  procul  arte,  procul  formidine  novi. 
Quam  vellem  ignotus,  quod  mens  mea  semper  avebat, 
Ante  larem  proprium  placidam  expectare  sencctam, 
Turn  demuin,  exactis  non  infeliciter  annis, 
Sortiri  taciturn  lapidem,  aut  sub  cespite  condi ! 


}  65 

CICINDELA. 

BY    VINCENT  BOURNE. 

Sub  sepe  exiguum  est,  nee  rard  in  margine  ripae, 

Reptile,  quod  lucet  nocte,  diequt-  latt-t. 
Verniis  habet  speciera,  sed  habet  de  iuniine  nome; 

At  prisca  a  t'ama  lion  liquet,  unile  micet. 
Plerique  a  cauda  credunt  procedere  lumen  ; 

Nee  desunt,  credunt  qui  rutilare  caput. 
Nam  superas  Stellas  quse  nox  acceridit,  et  illi 

Parcain  eadem  lucem  dat,  moduloque  parem. 
Forsitan  hoc  prud^ns  voluit  Natura  caveri, 

Ne  pede  quis  duro  reptile  contereret : 
Exiguam,  in  tenebris  ne  gressum  ofTenderet  ullus 

Praetendi  voluit  forsitan  ilia  facem. 
Sive  usum  hunc  Natura  parens,  seu  nialuit  ilium, 

Haud  frustra  accensa  est  lux,  radiique  daii. 
te  vos  fastus,  humiles  nee  spernite,  niagni  ; 

Quando  habet  et  minimum  reptile,  quod  niteat. 


I.  THE  GLOWWORM. 

I 

TRANSLATION  OF  THE  FOREGOING. 

Beneath  the  hedge,  or  near  the  stream, 

A  worm  is  known  to  stray ; 
That  shows  by  night  a  lutid  beam, 

Which  disappears  by  day. 

Disputes  have  been,  and  still  prevail, 
From  whence  his  rays  proceed ; 

Some  give  that  honor  to  his  tail, 
And  others  to  his  head. 

But  this  is  sure — the  hand  of  night, 

That  kindles  up  the  skies, 
Gives  him  a  modicum  of  light 

Proportion'd  to  his  size. 

Perhaps  indulgent  Nature  meant, 

By  such  a  lamp  bestow'd, 
To  bid  the  trav'ller,  as  he  went, 

Be  careful  where  he  trod  : 


166 

Nor  crush  a  worm,  whose  useful  light 
Might  serve,  however  small, 

To  show  a  stumbling  stone  by  night, 
And  save  him  from  a  fall. 

Whate'er  she  meant,  this  truth  divine 

Is  legible  and  plain, 
'Tis  pow'r  almighty  bids  him  shine, 

Nor  bids  him  shine  in  vain. 

Ye  proud  and  wealthy,  let  this  theme 
Teach  humbler  thoughts  to  you, 

Since  such  a  reptile  has  its  gem, 
And  boasts  its  splendor  too. 


CORNICULA. 

BY  VINCENT  BOURNE. 


Nigras  inter  aves  avis  est,  qua?  plnrima  tunes, 

Antiquas  aedes,  celsaque  fain  co'.it. 
Nil  tarn. sublime  est,  quod  non  audace  volatu, 

Aeriis  spernens  inferiora,  petit 
Quo  nemo  ascendat  cui  non  verfigi   c°rel  rum 

Curripiat,  certe  hunc  seligit  ilia  1  <c;.m. 
Quo  vix  a  terra  tu  suspicis  absque  nv.iion*, 

Ilia  metiis  exuers  incolumisque  sedet. 
Lamina  dtlubri  supra  t'astigia,  ventus 

Qua  coeli  spiret  de  regione,  docet  ; 
Hanc  ea  prae  reliquis  mavult,  secura  pericli, 

Nee  curat,  nedum  cogitat,  unde  cadal. 
Res  inde  humanas,  sed  summa  per  otia,  spectat. 

Et  nihil  ad  sese,  quas  videt,  esse  videt. 
Concursus  spectat,  plateaque  negotia  in  omni, 

Omnia  pro  nugis  at  sapienter  habet. 
Clamores,  quas  infra  audit,  si  forsitan  audit, 

Pio  rebus  nihili  negligit,  et  crocitat. 
Ille  tibi  invideat,  felix  Cornicula,  pennas, 

Qui  sic  humanis  rebus  abesse  velit. 


167 


II.  THE  JACKDAW. 

TRANSLATION  OF  THE  FOREGOING. 

There  is  a  bird,  who  by  his  coat, 
And  by  the  hoarseness  of  his  note, 

Might  be  suppos'd  a  crow  ; 
A  great  frequenter  of  the  church, 
\Vhere  bishop-like  he  finds  a  perch, 
And  dormitory  too. 

Above  the  steeple  shines  a  plnte, 
That  turns  and  turns,  to  indicate 

From  what  point  blows  the  weather, 
Look  up — your  brains  begin  to  swim, 
'Tis  in  ihe  clouds — that  pleases  him, 

He  cL_  ses  it  the  rather. 

Fond  of  the  speculative  height, 
Thither  he  wings  his  airy  Might, 

And  then  securely  sees 
The  bustle  and  the  raree-show, 
That  occupy  mankind  below, 

Secure  and  at  his  ease. 

You  think,  no  doubt,  he  sits  and  muses 
On  future  broken  bones  and  bruises, 

If  he  should  chance  to  Jail. 
No;   not  a  single  thought  like  that 
Employs  his  philosophic  pate, 

Or  troubles  it  at  all. 

He  sees,  that  this  great  roundabout, 
The  world,  with  all  its  motley  rout, 

Church,  army,  physic,  law, 
Its  customs,  and  its  bus'nesses, 
Is  no  concern  at  all  of  his, 

And  says — what  s  iys  he  ? — Caw. 

t 

Thrice  happy  bird  !    I  too  have  seen 
Much  of  the  vanities  of  men  ; 

Arid,  sick  of  having  seen  'em, 
Would  cheerfully  these  limbs  resign 
For  such  a  pair  of  wings  as  thine, 

And  sucli  a  head  between  'em. 


168 
AD  GRILLUM. 

A  n  acreon  t  i  cu  m. 
BY  VINCENT  BOURNE. 

O  qui  mese  culinae 
Argutulus  choraules, 
Et  hospes  es  canorus, 
Qiiaeunque  commoreris, 
Felicitatis  omen  ; 
Jucundiore  canru 
Siquando  me  salutes, 
Et  ipse  te  rependam, 
Et  ipse,  qua  valebo, 
Remunerabo  musa. 

Diceris  innocensque 
Et  gratus  inquilinus; 
Nee  victitans  rapinis, 
Ut  sorices  voraces, 
Muresve  curiosi, 
F'urumque  delicatum 
Vulgus  domesticorum; 
Sed  tutus  in  camini 
Recessibus,  quiete 
Contentus  et  calore. 

Beatior  Cicada, 
Quse  te  referre  forma, 
Quae  vocT:  te  videtur  ; 
Et  sal  titans  per  herbas, 
Unius,  hdud  securidae, 
.fl^statis  est  chorista  ; 
Tu  carmen  integratum 
Reponis  ad  Decembrem, 
Lsetus  per  universum 
Incontinenter  annum. 

Te  nulla  lux  relinquit, 
Te  nulla  nox  revisit, 
Non  musicae  vacantem, 
Curisve  non  solutum  : 
Quin  amplies  canerido, 
Quin  amplies  fruendo, 
jEtatulam,  vel  omni, 
Quam  nos  homuncionei 
Absumimus  querendo, 
longiorem. 


JG9 


III.  THE  CRICKET. 

TRANSLATION  OF  THE  FOREGOING. 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth, 
Chirping  on  my  kitchen  hearth, 
Wheresoe'er  be  thine  abode, 
Always  harbinger  ot  good, 
Pay  me  for  thy  warm  retreat 
"With  a  song  more  soft  and  sweet; 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  strain  as  i  can  give. 

Thus  thy  praise  shall  be  express'd, 
Inoffensive,  welcome  guest! 
\Vlnle  the  rat  is  on  the  scout, 
And  the  mouse  with  curious  snout, 
With  what  vermin  else  infest 
Ev'ry  dish,  and  spoil  the  best; 
Frisking  thus  before  ihe  tire, 
Thou  hast  all  thine  heart's  desire. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  be 
Form'd  as  if  akin  to  tliee, 
Thou  surpasses!,  happier  far, 
Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are  ; 
Theirs  is  but  a  summer's  song, 
Thine  endures  the  winter  long, 
Unimpair'd,  and  shrill,  and  clear, 
Melody  throughout  the  year. 

Neither  night;  nor  dawn  of  day, 
Puts  a  period  to  thy  play : 
Sing  then — and  extend  thy  span 
Far  beyond  the  date  of  man. 
Wretched  man,  whose  years  are  spent 
In  repining  discontent, 
Lives  not,  aged  though  he  be, 
Half  a  span,  compar'd  with  thee. 


170 

SIMILE  AGIT  IN  SIMILE. 

BY  VINCENT  BOURNE. 

Cristatus,  pictisque  ad  Thaida  Psittacus  alls, 

Missus  ab  Eoo  man  us  amaiite  veiut. 
Ancillis  mandat  priniam  for ai  are  loquelam, 

Archididascaliae  dat  sibi  Thais  opus. 
Psittace,  ait  Thais,  tiughqvie  sonautia  moile 

Basia,  quae  docilis  aiolle  retingit  avis. 
Jam  captat,  jam  dimidiat  tyruaculus  ;  et  jam 

Integral  auUitos  artic^latque  sonos. 
Psittace  uu  pulcher  pulchelle,  hera  dicit  aium..o  ; 

Psittace  an  pulcher,  reddit  alumnus  hera?. 
Jamque  canit,  ridet,  deciesque  aegrotat  in  hota. 

Et  vocat  aucillas  nomine  quamqu>;  suj. 
Multaque  scurratur  mendax,  et  multa  jocatur, 

Et  lepido  populum  detinet  augurio. 
Nunc  treamlum  illudet  fratrem,  qui  suspicit,  et  Pol ! 

Caraalis,  quisquis  te  docet,  inquit,  homo  tst ; 
Argutae  nunc  strulet  anus  argutulus  instar ; 

Kespicit,  et  nebulq  es,  quisquis  es,  inquit  ai  us. 
Quanuo  fuit  melior  tyro,  melioi ve  magisua  ! 

Quando  duo  ingenns  tain  coiere  pares  i 
Ardua  discenti  nulla  est,  res  nulla  doceati 

Ardua  ;  cum  doceat  foemina,  di^cat  avis. 


IV.  THE  PARROT. 

TRANSLATION  OF  THE  FOREGOING., 

In  pa|ited  plumes  superbly  dress'd, 
A  native  of  the  gorgeous  east, 

By  many  a  billow  u  ss'd, 
Poll  gains  at  length  the  British  shore, 
Part  of  the  captain's  precious  store, 

A  present  to  his  toast. 

Belinda's  maids  are  soon  preferr'd, 
To  teach  him  now  and  then  a  word, 

As  Poll  can  master  it ; 
But  'tis  her  own  important  charge, 
To  qualify  him  more  at  large, 

Atid  make  him  quite  a  wit 


171 

Sweet  Poll !  his  doating  mistress  cries, 
ISweet  Poll!   the  mimic  bird  replies; 

And  calls  aloud  for  sack. 
She  next  instructs  him  in  the  kiss ; 
.  is  now  a  little  one,  like  Miss, 

And  now  a  hearty  smack. 

At  first  he  aims  at  what  he  hears ; 
And,  list'ning  close  with  both  his  ears, 

Just  catches  at  the  sound  ; 
But  soon  articulates  aluiid, 
Much  10  the  amusement  of  the  crowd, 

Arid  stuns  the  neighbours  round. 

A  querulous  old  womans'  voice 
His  hum'rous  talent  nexi  employs; 

He  scolds,  and  gives  the  lie. 
And  now  he  sings,  and  now  is  sick, 
Here  baily,  Susan,  come,  come  quick, 

Poor  Poll  is  like  to  die  ! 

Belinda  and  her  bird  !   'tis  rare, 

To  meet  with  such  a  well-match'd  pair, 

The  language  and  the  tone, 
Each  character  in  ev'ry  part 
Suatain'd  with  so  much  grace  and  art, 

And  both  in  unison. 

When  children  first  begin  to  spell, 
And  siammer  out  a  syllable, 

U  e  think  them  tedious  creatures ; 
But  difficulties  soon  abate, 
V»  hen  birds  are  to  be  taught  to  prate, 

A. al  women  are  the  teachers. 


TRANSLATION  OF  PRIOR'S  CHLOE 
AND  EUPHELIA. 


r,  vigiles  oculos  ut  fallere  possit, 

sub  ficto  trans  mare  mittit  opes; 
Lene  sonat  liquidumque  meis  Eupheha  chord,  s, 
Sed  solam  exoptant  te,  mea  vota,  Chide. 

A'l  speculum  ornabat  nitidos  Euphelia  cr.nes, 
Cum  dixit  mea  lux,  Heus,  cane,  sume  lyrain. 

ISamque  lyram  juxta  positam  cum  carmine  vidit, 
Suave  quidem  carmen  dulcisonamque  lyram. 


172 

Fila  lyrae  vocemque  paio,  suspiria  surgant, 
Et  misceiit  nuuietis  munnura  mcest.i  nieis. 

Dumque  tuae  meinoro  laudes,  Euphelia,  formae, 
Tola  aniiua  interea  pftndev  ab  ore  Chlojs. 

Subrubet  ilia  pudore,  et  contrahit  altera  frontern 
Me  torquet  mea  mens  conscia,  psallo,  tremo ; 

Atque  Cupidiriea  dixit  Dea  cmcta  euro:: a, 
Heu  i  lailendi  arteiu  quani  didicere  parum. 


THE  DIVERTING 

HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN: 

Showing  how  he  went  farther  than  he  intended,  and 
came  safe  home  again. 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  train- band  captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear, 
Though  wedded  we  have  been 

These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

To-morrow  is  our  wedding  day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 
1  All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 


My  sister,  and  my -sister's  child, 
Myself,  and  children  three, 

Will  rill  the  chaise  ;  so  you  must 
On  horseback  after  we. 

He  soon  replied,  I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one, 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear, 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

I  am  a  linendraper  bold, 

As  all  the  world  doth  know. 

And  in  r  good  friend    he  c  .knd'ror 
\Yill  lend  his  horse  to  po. 


1  73 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  That's  well  said ; 

And  for  that  wine  is  dear, 
We  will  be  furnUh'd  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  cltai. 

John  Gilpin  kiss'd  his  loving  wife; 

O'erjoy'd  was  he  to  find, 
That  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allow'd 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stay'd, 

Where  they  did  all  get  in ; 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels, 

Were  never  folk  so  glad, 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  hone's  side 

Seiz'd  fast  the  flowing  mane, 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride, 

But  soon  came  down  again  ; 

For  saddletree  scarce  reach'd  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came  ;  for  loss  of  time, 

Although  it  griev'd  him  sore; 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  *ell  he  knew, 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind, 
When  Betty  screaming  came  down  stairs, 

'  The  wine  is  left  behind  !' 

Good  lack!   quoth  he— yet  bring  it  me, 

My  leathern  belt  likewise, 
In  which  I  bear  iny  trusty  sword 
When  I  do  exercise. 
Q2 


174 

Now  mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul  !) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  lov'd, 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling-  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side, 
To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipp'd  from  top  to  toe, 
His  long  red-cloak,  well  bru&h'd  and  neat, 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed, 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones, 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  gall'd  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  Fair  and  softly,  John  he  cried, 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain  ; 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 

la  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must, 

Who  cannot  sit  upright, 
He  grasp'd  the  mane  with  both  his  hands, 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before, 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig; 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly, 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay, 
Till.  lc«  p  and  button  failing  both, 

At  last  if  Hew  away 


175 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 
The  bouJes  he  had  slung  : 

A  bottle  swinging  at  each    side, 
As  hath  been  said  or 


The  clogs  did  bark,  the  children  scream'd, 

Up  Hew  i he  windows  all  ; 
And  I'v'ry  soul  cued  out,  Well  done! 

As  loud  as  lie  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  he  ? 

His  fame  soon  spread  arouiul, 
He  carries  weight!   he  ridi-s  a  race! 

' Tis  for  a  thousand  pound  ! 

And  still,  as  f,,st  as  he  drew  near, 

'T\vas  wonderful  to  view, 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike  men 

Their  gaies  wide  open  threw. 

Ar.d  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low, 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

Were  shattered  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road, 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke 

As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seem'd  to  carry  weight, 

Writh  leathern  girdle  brac'd  ; 
For  all  might  see  the  bottle  necks 

Still  dangling  at  his  waist 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 

These  gambols  he  did  play, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 
Of  Edmonton  so  gay  ; 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcon)  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wond'ring  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 


176 

Stop,   stop,  John  Gilpin! — Here's    -'i  •  house— 

They  aiJ  at  once  did  cry ; 
The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tir'd  ; 

Said  Gilpin — So  am  1 1 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

IncJin'd  to  tarry  there  ; 
For  why? — his  owner  had  a  house 

Fail  ten  miles  oif,  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong ; 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will, 
Till  at  his  friend  the  calend'rers, 
His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calend'rer,  amaz'd  to  see 

His  neighbour  in  such  trim, 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him  : 

What  news  ?  what  news  ?  your  tidings  u  \i  -, 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  ? 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  lov'd  a  timely  joke  ; 
And  thus  unto  the  calend'rer 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke  : 

I  came  because  your  horse  would  com    ; 

And,  if  I  well  forbode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here, 

They  are  upon  the  road. 

The  calend'rer,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Return'd  him  not  a  single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in  ; 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  ai:d  wi^j 

A  wig  that  thnv'd  behind. 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear, 

Each  comely  in  its  kiuJ. 


17? 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 

Thus  show'd  his  ready  wit, 
My  lie  -il  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 
t    e     therefore  needs  must  fit. 

let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away, 
That  hangs  upon  \our  face  ; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 
He  in  a  hungry  case. 

Said  John,  It  is  my  wedding-day, 
And  all  the  world  wouhl  stare, 

If  wife  slvuld  dine  at  Edmonton, 
And  I  should  dine  at  Ware. 

So  turning  to  his  ho-se,  he  said, 

I  am  in  haste  to  dine  ; 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here, 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine. 

Ah  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast] 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear  ; 
For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sang  most  loud  and  clear ; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 
And  gall  p'd  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig: 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first, 

For  why  I — they  were  too  big. 

Now  mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  pull  d  out  half  a  crown  ; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 
This  shall  be  yours,  when  you  bring  back 

My  husband  safe  and  well. 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coining  back  amain  ; 
Whom  in  i     ire  in    tried    o  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein  ; 


173 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 
And  gladly  would  have  done, 

The-  lYi^htei!  steed  he  frighted  more, 
And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  postboy  at  his  heels, 
The  postboy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumb'ring  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road, 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  postboy  scamp'ring  in  the  rear, 

They  rais'd  the  hue  and  cry  : — 

Stop  thief!  stop  thief! — a  highwayman! 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute  ;" 
And  all  and  each  that  pass'd  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike-gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space  ; 
The  toll -men  thinking  as  before, 

Thai  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town  ; 
Nor  stopp'd  till  where  he  had  got  up, 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  long  live  the  king, 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he: 
And,  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  1  be  there  to  see ! 


AN  EPISTLE 

TO 
AN  AFFLICTED  PROTESTANT  LADY  IN  FRANC 

MADAM, 

A  stranger's  purpose  in  these  lays 
Is  to  congratulate,  and  not  to  praise. 
To  give  the  creature  the  Creator's  due 
Were  sin  in  me,  and  an  offence  to  you. 


179 

Fror.»  man  to  man,  or  e'en  to  woman  paid, 
Praise  is  the  medium  of  a  knavish  trade, 
A  coin  by  craft  for  folly's  use  design'd, 
Spurious,  and  only  current  with  the  blind. 

T\\f  path  of  sorrow,  and  that  path  alone, 
Leads  to  the  land  where  sorrow  is  unknown  ; 
No  trav'ller  ever  reach'd  that  bless  d  abode, 
U'ho  found  not  th  r  ;S  an  1  briers  in  his  road. 
The   World  may  dance  along  the  fiow'ry  plain, 
Cheer'd  as  they  go  by  many  :-t  sprightly  strain, 
Where  Nature  has  her  mossy  velvet  spread, 
Whh  unshod  feet  they  yet  securely  tread, 
Admonish 'd,  scorn  the  caution  and  the  friend, 
Be.it  ;.ll  on  pleasure,  heedless  of  its  end. 
But  he,  who  knew  wliat  human  hearts  would  pro /e 
How  slow  to  learn  the  dictates  ot  his  love, 
That,  hard  by  nature  and  of  stubborn  will, 
A  life  of  ease  would  make  them  harder  still, 
In  pity  to  rhe  souls  his  grace  design'd 
To  rescue  from  the  ruins  of  mankind, 
Call'd  for  a  cloud  to  darken  all  their  years, 
And  said,  '  Go,  spend  them  in  the  vale  of  tears. 
O  balmy  gales  of  soul-reviving  air! 
O  salutary  streams,  that  murmur  there! 
These  flowing  from  the  fount  of  grace  above, 
Those  breath'd  from  lips  of  evtrlasting  love. 
The  flinty  soil  indeed  the  feet  annoys; 
Chill  blasts  of  trouble  nip  their  springing  joys  ; 
An  envious  world  will  interpose  its  fiown, 
To  mar  delights  superior  to  its  own  ; 
An  1  many  a  pang,  experienc'd  still  within, 
Reminds  them  of  their  hated  inmate,  Sin  : 
But  ills  of  ev'ry  shape  and  ev'ry  name, 
Transform'd  to  blessings,  miss  tlieii  cruel  aim  ; 
And  ev'ry  moment's  calm  that  soothes  the  bre.nst, 
Is  giv'n  in  earnest  of  eternal  rest. 

Ah,  be  not  sad,  although  thy  lot  bo  cast 
Far  from  the  flock,  and  in  a  boundless  wasle! 
No  shepherd's  t''nts  within  thy  view  appear, 
But  the  chief  Shepherd  even  there  is  near  ; 
Thy   tenaer  sorrows  ami  thy  plaintive  strain, 
Flow  in  a  foreign  land,  hut  not  in  vain  ; 
Thy  tears  all  issue  from  a  source  divine, 
And  ev'ry  drop  bespeaks  a  Saviour  thine— 
So  once  in  Gideon's  fleece  the  dews  were  Sound, 
Ynd  drought  on  all  the  drooping  herbs  around. 


180 


TO  THE 

REV.  W.  CAWTHORNL  UN  WIN, 


Unwin,  T  should  hut  ill  repay 

The  kindness  of  a  friend, 
Whose  worth  deserves  as  warm  a  lay, 

As  ever  friendship  penn'd, 
Thy  name  omitted  in  a  page, 
That  would  reclaim  a  vicious  age. 

A  union  form'd,  as  mine  with  thee, 

Not  rashly,  or  in  sport, 
May  be  as  fervent  in  degree, 

And  faithful  in  its  sort, 
And  may  as  rich  in  comfort  prove, 
As  that  of  true  fraternal  love. 

The  bud  inserted  in  the  rind, 
The  bud  of  peach  or  rose, 

Adorns,  though  ditf'ring  in  its  kind, 
The  stock  whereon  it  grows, 

With  flow'r  as  sweet,  or  fruit  as  fair, 

As  if  produc'd  by  Nature  there. 

Not  rich,  I  render  what  I  may, 
I  seize  thy  name  in  haste, 

And  place  it  in  this  first  essay, 
Lest  this  should  prove  the  last. 

'Tis  where  it  should  be — in  a  plan, 

lhat  holds  in  view  the  good  of  mail. 

The  poet's  lyre,  to  fix  his  fame, 
Should  l>e  the  poet's  heart ; 

Affection  lights  a  brighter  flame 
Than  ever  blaz'd  by  art. 

No  iiiuses  on  these  lines  attend, 

1  sink  the  puet  in  the  friend. 


181 


THE  TASK. 

BOOK  I. 


THE  SOFA. 


ARGUMENT  OF   THE  FIRST  BOOK. 

Historical  deduction  of  seats,  from  the  stool  to  the  S  >fa. — A  Schoolboy's 
ramble. — A  walk  in  the  country. — The  scene  described. — Rural  sounds 
as  well  as  sights  delightful. — Another  walk. — Mistake  concerning  the 
charms  of  solitude  corrected. — Colonnades  commended. — Alco\  e,  a;.d  the 
view  from  it.— The  wilderness.— The  grove.— The  thresher.— The  neces- 
sity and  the  benefits  of  exercise. — The  works  of  nature  superior  to.  and 
ir  some  instances  inimitable  by,  art. — The  wearisomeness  of  what  is 
commonly  called  a  life  of  pleasure. — Change  of  scene  sometimes  expedi- 
ent.—A  common  described,  and  the  character  of  crazy  Kate  introduced. 
—Gipsies.— The  blessings  of  civilized  life. — That  state  most  favorable 
to  virtue.— The  South  Sea  islanders  compassionated,  but  chiefly  Omai. 
—His  present  state  of  mind  supposed. — Civilized  life  friendly  to  vrtue, 
but  not  great  cities. — Great  cities,  and  London  in  particular,  allowed 
their  due  praises,  but  censured.— Fete  champetre.— The  book  concludes 
with  a  reflection  on  the  total  effects  of  dissipation  and  effeminacy  upon 
our  public  measures. 

I  sing  the  Sofa.     I,  who  lately  sang 
Truth,  Hope,  and  Charity,*  and  touch'd  with  awe 
The  solemn  chords,  and  with  a   trembling  hand, 
E'cap'd  with  pain  from  that  advent'rous  flight, 
•"•Now  seek  repose  upon  an  humbler  theme; 
The  theme  though  humble,  yet  august  and 
T h'occasion — for  the  Fair  commands  the  song 

Time  was,  when  clothing  sumptuous  or  for  use 
Save  their  own  painted  skins,  our  sires  had  none. 
As  yet  black  breeches  were  not ;  satin  smooth, 
Or  velvet  soft,  or  plush  with  shaggy  pile  : 
The  h.irdy  chief  upon  the  rugged  rock 
V\  ash'd  by  the  sea,  or  on  the  grav'lly  bank 
Thrown  up  by  wintry  torrents  roaring  loud, 
Fearless  of  wrong,  repos'd  his  wearied  strength. 
Those  barb'rous  ages  past,  succeeded  next 
The  birth-day  of  Invention;  weak  at  first, 
Dull  in  design,  and  clumsy  to  perform. 

*  See  Poems,  pages  38,  74,  94. 
K 


182  THE    TASK. 

Joint-stools  were  then  created  ;  on  three  legs 

Upborne  they  stood.     Three  legs  upholding  firm 

A  massy  slab,  in  fashion  square  or  round. 

On  such  a  stool  immortal  Alfred  sat, 

And  sway'd  the  sceptre  of   his  infant  realms: 

And  such  in  ancient  halls  and  mansions  drear 

May  still  be  seen;   but  perforated  sore, 

And  drill' d  in  holes,  the  solid  oak  is^found, 

By  worms  voracious  eaten  through  and  through. 

At  lei;gth  a  gent-ration  more  refin'd 
Improv'd  the  simple  plan  ;  made  three  legs  four, 
Gave  them  a  twisted  f  >im  vermicular, 
And  o'er  the  seat,  with  plenteous  wadding  stuff 'd, 
Induc'd  a  splendid  cover,  green  and  blue, 
Yellow  and  red,  of  tapestiy  richly  wrought 
And  woven  close,  or  needlewoik  sublime. 
There  might  ye  see  the  peony  spread  wide, 
The  full-blown  rose,  the  shepherd  and  his  lass, 
Lapdog  and  lambkin  with  bl.ick  staring  eyes, 
And  p'arrots  with  twin  cherries  in  their  beak. 

Now  came  the  cane  from   India,  smooth  and  bright 
With  Nature's  varnish  ;  sever'd  into  stripes, 
That  i.iterlac'd  each  other,  these  supplied 
Of  texture  firm  a  lattice-work,  that  brac'd 
The  new  machine,  and  it  became  a  chair. 
But  restless  was  the  chair ;   the  hack  erect 
Distress'd  the  weary  loins,  that  felt  no  ease; 
The  slipp'ry  seat  becray'd  the  sliding  part, 
That  press'd  it,  and  the  feet  hung  dangling  down, 
Anxious  in  vain  to  find  the  distant  floor. 
These  for  the  rich  ;  the  rest,  whom  Fate  had  plac'd 
In  modest  mediocrity,  content 

_j_  _With  base  niateri als,  sat  on  well-tann'd  hides, 
Obdurate  and  unyielding,  glassy  smooth, 
With  here  and  there  a  tuft  of  crimson. yarn, 
Or  scarlet  crewel,  in  the  cushion  tix'd, 
If  cushion  might  be  call'd,  what  harder  seem'd 
Than  the  firm  oak,  of  which  the  frame  was  form'd. 
No  want  of  timber  then  was  felt  or  feai'd 
In  Albion's  happy  isle.     The  lumber  stood 
Pond'rous  and  fix'd  by  its  own  massy  wt-ight. 
But  elijows  still  were  wanting;   these,  some  say, 
An  alderman  of  Cripplegate  eonti  iv'd  ; 
And  some  ascribe  th'invention  to  a  priest, 
Burly,  and  big,  and  studious  of  his  ease. 
But  rude  at  first,  and  not  with  easy  slope 
Receding  wide,  they  p'ess'd  against  the  ribs, 
And  bruis'd  the  side:    ind,  elevated  high, 
Taught  the  rais'd  she1  .ders  to  invade  the  ears. 


THE    SOFA.  133 

Long  time  claps' d  or  e'er  our  rugged  sires 
Coinplain'd,  though  incommodiously  pent  in, 
And  ill  at  ease  behind.     The  ladies  first 
'Gan  m Linn ur,  as  became  the  softer  sex. 
Ingeni  >us  Fancy,  never  better  pleas'd, 
Thau  when  e-nploy'd  t'accomodace  the  fair, 
Heard  the  sweet  moan  with  pity,  and  devis'd 
The  soft  settee;,  one  elbow  at  eacli  end, 
And  in  the  midst  an  elbow  it  receiv'd, 
United  yet  divided,  twain  at  once. 
So  sit  two  kings  of  Brentford  on  one  throne  ; 
And  so  two  citizens,  who  take  the  air, 
C'lose  pack'd,  and  smiling,'  in  a  chaise  and  one. 
But  relaxation  of  the  languid  frame, 
By  soft  recumbency  of  outstretch'd  limbs, 
Was  bliss  reserv'd  for  happier  days.     So  slow 
The  growth  of  what  is  excellent;  so  hard 
T'attain  perfection  in  this  nether  world. 
*  Thus  first  Necessity  invented  stools, 
Convenience  nexi  suggested  elbow  chairs, 
And  Luxury  ch'acomplish'd  Soja  last. 

The  nur.se  sleeps  sweetly,  hir'd  to  watch  the  sick, 
Whom  snoring  she  disturbs.     As  sweetly  he, 
Who  quits  the  coach-box  at  the  midnight  hour 
To  sleep  Aithin  the  carriage  more  secure, 
His  legs  depending  at  '.he  open  door. 
Sweet  sleep  e.  joys  the  curate  in  his  desk, 
The  tedious  rector  drawling  o'er  his  head  ; 
And  sweet  ihe  clerk  below.      But  neither  sleep 
Of  la/y  nurse,  who  sncres  the  sick  man  dead  ; 
Nor  his,  who  quits  the  box  at  midnight  hour, 
To  slumber  in  the  carriage  more  secure  ; 
Nor  sleep  enjoy' d  by  curate  in  his  desk; 
Nor  yet  the  do/ings  of  the  clerk,  are  sweet, 
Com  par 'd  with  the  repose  the  Soja  yields. 

(.)  may  I  live  exempted  (svhile  1  live 
Guiltless  of  pamper'd  appetite  obscene) 
Fro.n  pangs  arthritic,  that  infest  the  toe 
Of  libertine  Excess.     The  Sofa  suits 
The  gouty  limb,  'tis  true  ;  but  gouty  limb, 
Though  on  a  Sofa,  may  I  never  tetl  : 
For  I  have  lov'd  the  rural  walk  through  lanes 
Of  grassy  swarth,  close  cropp'd  by  nibbling  sheep, 
And  skirted  thick  with  intertexture  firm 
Of  thorny  boughs;  have  lov'd  the  rural  walk 
O'ei  lulls,  through  valleys,  and  by  rivers'  brink, 
K'er  since  a  truant  boy  1  pass'd  my  bounds, 
T'enjoy  a  ramble  on  the  banks  of  Thames; 
Ami  stiil  remember,  nor  without  regret 


184  THE   TASK. 

Of  hours,  that  sorrow  since  has  much  endear' d, 

How  oft,  my  slice  of  pocket  store  consum'd, 

Still  hung'ring,  penniless,  and  tar  from  home, 

I  fed  on  scarlet  hips  and  stony  haws, 

Or  blushing  crabs,  or  berries,  that  emboss 

The  bramble,  black  as  jet,  or  sloes  austere. 

Hard  fare!   but  such  as  boyish  appetite 

Disdains  not ;  nor  the  palate,  undepiav'd 

By  culinary  arts,  unsav'ry  deems. 

No  Sofa  then  awaited  my  return; 

Nor  Sofa  then  I  needed.     Youth  repairs 

His  wasted  spirits  quickly,  by  long  toil 

Incurring  short  fatigue  ;  and,  though  our  years, 

As  life  declines,  speed  rapidly  away, 

And  not  a  year  but  pilfers  as  he  goes 

Some  youthful  grace,  that  age  would  gladly  keep  ; 

tooth  or  an.. urn  lock,  and  by  degrees 
Their  length  ana  color  from  the  locks  they  spare; 
Th'elastic  spring  of  an  unwearied  foot, 
That  mounts  the  stile  with  ease,  or  leaps  the  fence, 
That  play  of  lungs,  inhaling  and  again 
Respiring  freely  the  fresh  air,  that  makes 
Swift  pace  or  steep  ascent  no  toil  to  me, 
Mine  have  not  pilfer' d  yet,  nor  yet  impair'd 
My  relish  of  fair  prospect ;  scenes  that  sooth  'd 
Or  charm'd  me  young,  no  longer  young,  1  rind 
Still  southing,  and  of  pow'r  to  charm  me  still. 
And  witness,  dear  companion  of  my  walks, 
"Whose  arm  this  twentieth  winter  1  perceive 
Fast  lock'd  in  mine,  with  pleasure  such  as  love, 
Confirm'd  by  long  experience  of  thy  worth 
And  well-tried  virtues,  could  alone  inspire  — 
Witness  a  joy  that  thou  hast  doubled  long. 
Thou  know'st  my  praise  of  nature  most  sincere, 
And  that  my  raptures  are  not  conjur'd  up 
To  serve  occasions  of  poetic  pomp, 
But  genuine,  and  art  partner  of  them  all. 
How  oft  upon  yon  eminence  our  pace 
Has  slacken'd'to  a  pause,  and  we  have  borne 
The  raffling  wind,  scarce  conscious  that  it  blew, 
While  Admiration,  feeding  at  tlie  eye, 
And  still  unsated,  dwelt  upon  the  scene. 
Thence  with  what  pleasure   have  we  just  discern'd 
The  distant  plough  slow  moving,  and  beside 
His  lab1  ring  team,  that  swerv'd  not  from  the  track, 
The  sturdy  swain  diminish'd  to  a  boy  ! 
Here  Ouse,  slow  winding  through  a  level  plain 
Ot  spacious  meads  witu  cattle  sprinkled  o'er, 
Conducts  the  eye  along  his  sinuous  course 


THE    SOFA.  185 

Delighted.     There,  fast  rooted  in  their  bank, 
Stan. I,  never  overlook'il,  our  fav'rite  elms, 
That  screen  the  herdsman's  solitary  hut; 
While  fir  beyond,  and  overth wart  tlie  stream, 
That,  as  with  molten  glass,  inlays  the  vale. 
The  sloping  land  recedes  into  the  clouds  ; 
Displaying  0:1  its  varied  side  the  grace 
Of  hedge  row  beauties  numberless,  square  tow'r, 
Tall  spire,  fro  n  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 
Just  undulates  upon  the  list'ning  ear, 
Gloves,  heaths,  and  smoking  villages,  remote. 
Scenes  must  be  beautiful,  which  daily  view'd 
Please  daily,  and  whose  novelty  survives 
Long  knowledge  and  the  scrutiny  of  years  : 
Praise  justly  due  to  those  that  1  describe. 

Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds, 
Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  Nature.     Mighty  winds, 
Thai  sweep  ihe  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike 
The  dash  of  Ocean  on  his  winding  shore, 
And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind; 
Unnumber'd  branches  waving  in  the  blast, 
And  all  their  leaves  fast  flutt'ring,  all  at  once. 
Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 
Of  distant  floods  or  on  the  softer  voice 
Of  neighb  ring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  and,  chiming  as  they  fall 
Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 
In  matted  grass,  that  with  a  livelier  green 
Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 
Nature  inanimate  employs  sweet  sounds, 
But  animated  Nature  sweeter  still, 
To  sooth  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 
Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one 
The  livelong  night:  nor  these  alone,  whose  notes 
Nice-finger'd  Art  must  emulate  in  vain, 
But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 
In  still  repeated  circles,  screaming  loud, 
The  jay,  the  pie,  and  e'en  the  boding  owl, 
That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me. 
Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves  and  harsh, 
Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  for  ever  reigns, 
And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. 

Peace  to  the  artist  whose  ingenious  thought 
Devis'd  the  weather-house,  that  useful  toyl 
Fearless  of  humid  air  and  gath'ring  rains, 
Forth  steps  the  man — an  emblem  of  myself  1 
More  delicate  his  tim'rous  mate  retires. 

B  2 


1S6  'HE   TASK. 

When  Winter  soaks  the  fields,  and  female  feet, 

Too  weak  to  struggle  with  tenacious  clay, 

Or  ford  the  rivulets,  are  best  at  home, 

T  he  task  of  new  discov'ries  falls  on  me. 

At  such  a  season,  and  with  such  a  charge, 

Once  went  I  forth  ;  and  found,  till  then  unknown, 

A  cottage,  whither  oft  we  since  repair: 

"Tis  perch'd  upon  the  green  hill  top,  but  close 

Environ' d  with  a  ring  of  branching  elms, 

That  overhang  the  thatch,  itself  unseen 

Peeps  at  the  vale  below  ;  so   thick  beset 

With  foliage  of  such  dark  redundant  growth, 

I  call'd  che  low-roof  d  lodge  the  peasant's  nest. 

And,  hidden  as  it  is,  and  far  remote 

From  such  unpleasing  sounds,  as  haunt  the  ear 

In  village  or  in  town,  the  bay  of  curs 

Incessant,  clinking  hammers,  grinding  wheels, 

And  infants'  clam'rous,  whether  pleas'd  or  pain'd, 

Oft  have  1  wish'd  the  peaceful  covert  mine. 

Here,  I  have  said,  at  least  1  should  possess 

The  poet's  treasure,  silence,  and  indulge 

The  dreams  of  fancy,  tranquil  and  secure. 

Vain  thought!   the  dweller  in  that  still  retreat 

Dearly  obtains  the  refuge  it  affords. 

]ts  elevated  site  forbids  the  wretch 

To  drink  sweet  waters  of  the  crystal  well  ; 

He  dips  his  bowl  into  the  weedy  ditch, 

And,  heavy  laden,  brings  his  bev'rage  home, 

Far  fetch'd  and  little  worth ;  nor  seldom  waits, 

Dependent  on  the  baker's  punctual  call, 

To  hear  his  creaking  panniers  at  the  door, 

Angry  and  sad,  and  his  last  crust  consum'd. 

So  farewell  envy  of  the  peasant's  nest  ! 

Jf  solitude  make  scant  the  means  of  life, 

Society  for  me  !— thou  seeming  sweet, 

Be  still  a  pleasing  object  in  my  view  ; 

My  visit  still,  but  never  mine  abode. 

Not  distant  far,  a  length  of  colonnade 
Invites  us.     Monument  of  ancient  taste, 
Mow  scorn'd,  but  worthy  of  a  better  fate. 
Our  fathers  knew  the  value  of  a  screen 
From  sultry  suns  :  and,  in  their  shaded  walks 
And  long  protracted  bow'rs,  enjoy'd  at  noon 
The  gloom  and  coolness  of  declining  day. 
We  beai  our  shades  about  us;  self-uepriv'd 
Of  other  screen,  the  thin  umbrella  spread, 
And  range  an  Indian  waste  without  a  tree. 
Thanks  to  Benevolus* — he  spares  me  yet 
John  Courtney  Throckmorton,  Esq.  of  Weston  Underwood. 


THE    SOFA.  187 

These  chesnuts  rang'd  in  corresponding  lines  : 
And  though  himself  so  polish'd,  still  repreives 
The  obsolete  prolixity  of  shade. 
Descending  now  (but  cautious,  lest  too  fast) 
A  sudden  steep,  upon  a  rustic  bridge 
We  pass  a  gulf,  in  which  the  willows  dip 
Their  pendent  boughs,  stooping  as  if  to  drink. 
Hence,  ancle  deep  in  moss  and  flow'ry  thyme, 
We  mount  again,  and  feel  at  ev'ry  step 
Our  foot  halt  sunk  in  hillocks  green  and  soft, 
Ilais'd  by  the  mole,  the  miner  of  the  soil.      , 
He,  not  unlike  the  great  ones  of  mankind, 
Disfigures  Earth:  and,  plotting  in  the  dark,) 
Toils  much  to  earn  a  monumental  pile, 
That  may  record  the  mischiefs  he  has  done. 

The  summit  gain'd,  behold  the  proud  alcov 
That  crowns  it !  yet  not  all  its  pride  secures 
The  grand  retreat  from  injuries   impress'd 
By  rural  carvers,  who  with  knives  deface 
The  panels,  leaving  an  obscure,  rude  name, 
In  characters  uncouth,  and  spelt  amiss. 
So  strong  the  zeal  to  immortalize  himself 
Beats  in  the  breast  of  man,  that  e'en  a  few, 
Few  transient  years,  won  from  th'abyss  abhorr'd 
Of  blank  oblivion,  seem  a  glorious  prize, 
And  even  to  a  clown.     Now  roves  the  eye  ; 
And,  posted  on  this  speculative  height, 
Exults  in  its  command.     The  sheeptbld  here 
Pours  out  its  fleecy  tenants  o'er  the  glebe. 
At  first,  progressive  as  a  stream,  they  seek 

The  middle  field  ;   but,  scatter'd  by  degrees, 
Each  to  his  choice,  soon  whiten  all  the  land. 

There  from  the  sun-burnt  hayfield  homeward  creeps 

The  loaded  wain  ;  while,  lighten'd  of  its  charge, 

The  wain  that  meets  it  passes  swiftly  by  ; 

Ihe  boorish  driver  leaning  o'er  his  team 

Vocif 'rous,  and  impatient  of  delay. 

Nor  less  attractive  is  the  woodland  scene, 

Diversified  with  trees  of  ev'ry  growth, 

Alike,  yet  various.     Here  the  gray  smooth  trunks 

Of  ash,  or  lime,  or  beech,  distinctly  shine, 

Within  the  twilight  of  their  distant  shades  ; 

There,  lost  behind  a  rising  ground,  the  wood 

Seems  sunk,  and  shorten'd  to  its  topmost  boughs 

No  tree  in  all  the  grove  but  has  its  charms, 

Though  each  its  hue  peculiar;  paler  some, 

And  of  a  waiiish  gray;  the  willow  such, 

And  poplar,  that  with  silver  lints  his  leaf, 

And  ash  iur-streiching  his  umbrageous  arm; 


188  THE    TASK. 

Of  deeper  green  the  elm  ;  and  deeper  still, 

Lard  of  the  woods,  the  long  surviving  oak. 

Some  glossy-leav'd,  and  shining  in  the  sun, 

The  maple,  and  the  beach  of  oily  nuts 

Prolific,  and  the  lime  at  dewy  eve 

Diffusing  odors:   nor  unnoted  pass 

The  sycamore,  capricious  in  attire, 

!Now  green,  now  tawny,  and  ere  autumn  yet 

Have  chang'd  the  woods,  in  scarlet  honors  bright. 

O'er  these,  but  lar  beyond  (a  spacious  map 

Of  hill  and  valley  interpos'd  between), 

The  Ouse,  dividing  the  well-water'd  land, 

Now  glitters  iu  the  sun,  and  now  retires, 

As  bashful,  yet  impatient  to  be  seen. 

Hence  the  declivity  is  sharp  and  short, 
And  such  the  re-ascent ;  between  them  weeps 
A  little  naiad  her  impov'rish'd  urn 
All  summer  long,  which  winter  fills  again. 
The  folded  gates  would  bar  my  progress  now, 
But  that  the  lord*  of  this  enclos'd  demesne, 
Communicative  of  the  good  he  owns, 
Admits  me  to  a  share ;  the  guiltless  eye 
Commits  no  wrong,  nor  wastes  what  it  enjoys. 
Refreshing  change  \  where  now  the  blazing  sun? 
By  short  transition  we  have  lost  his  glare, 
And  stepp'd  at  once  into  a  cooler  clime. 
Ye  fallen  avenues  \  once  more  I  mourn 
Your  fate  unmerited,  once  more  rejoice 
That  yet  a  i-emnant  of  your  race  survives. 
How  airy  and  how  light  the  graceful  arch, 
Yet  awful  as  the  consecrated  roof 
Re-echoing  pious  anthems  \  while  beneath 
The  checker' d  earth  seems  restless  as  a  flood 
Brush'd  by  the  wind.    So  sportive  is  the  light 
Shot  through  the  boughs,  it  dances  as  they  dance. 
Shadow  and  sunshine  intermingling  quick, 
And  dark'ning  and  enlightening,  as  the  leaves 
Play  wanton,  ev'ry  moment,  ev'ry  spot. 

And  now,  with  nerves  new-brac'd  and  spirits  cheer'd, 
We  tread  the  wilderness,  whose  well-roll'd  walks, 
With  curvature  of  slow  and  easy  sweep — 
Deception  innocent — give  ample  space 
To  narrow  bounds.     The  grove  receives  us  next; 
Between  the  upright  shafts  of  whose  tall  elms 
We  may  discern  the  thresher  at  his  task. 
Thump  after  thump  resounds  the  constant  flail, 
That  seems  to  swing  uncertain,  and  yet  falls 

*  See  the  foregoing  note. 


THE    SOFA.  189 

F  til  on  the  destin'd  ear.     Wide  flies  the  chaff, 
The  rustling  straw  sends  up  a  frequent  mist 
of  iuo  us,  sparkling  in  the  noonday  beam. 
(  o'ne  hither,  ye  that  press  your  beds  of  down, 
Aiul  sleep  not  ;  see  him  sweating  o'er  his  bread 
Before  he  eats  it.     'Tis  the  primal  curse, 
But  soften M  into  mercy;  m;ide  the  pledge 
Of  cheerful  days,  and  nights  without  a  groan. 

By  ceaseless  action  all  that  is  subsists. 
Constant  rotation  of  th'unwearied  wheel, 
That  Nature  rides  upon,  maintains  her  health, 
Her  beauty,  her  fertility.     She  dreads 
An  instant's  pause,  and  lives  but  while  she  moves. 
Its  own  revolvency  upholds  the  world. 
Winds  from  all  quarters  agitate  the  air, 
And  tit  the  limpid  element  for  use, 
Else  n  >xious  ;  oceans,  rivers,  lakes,  and  streams, 
All  feel  the  fresh'ning  impulse,  and  are  cleans'd 
By  restless  undulation  :  e'en  the  oak 
Thrives  by  the  rude  concussion  of  the  storm  : 
He  seems  indeed  indignant,  and  to  feel 
Th' impression  of  the  blast  with  proud  disdain, 
Frowning,  as  if  in  his  unconscious  arm 
He  held  the  thunder:   but  the  monarch  owes 
His  firm  stability  to  what  he  scorns, 
More  tix'd  below,  the  more  disturb'd  above. 
The  law,  by  which  all  creatures  else  are  bound, 
Binds  man,  the  lord  of  all.     Himself  derives 
No  mean  advantage  from  a  kindred  cause, 
From  strenuous  toil  his  hours  of  sweetest  ease. 
The  sedentary  stretch  their  lazy  length 
When  Custom  bids,  but  no  refreshment  find, 
For  none  they  need :  the  languid  eye,  the  cheek 
Deserted  of  its  bloom,  the  flaccid,  shrunk, 
And  wither'd  muscle,  and  the  vapid  soul, 
Reproach  their  owner  with  that  love  of  rest, 
To  which  he  forfeits  e'en  the  rest  he  loves. 
Not  such  the  alert  and  active.     Measure  life 
By  its  true  worth,  the  comfort  it  affords, 

And  theirs  alone  seems  worthy  of  the  name. 

Good  health,  and,  its  associate  in  the  most, 

Good  temper ;  spirits  prompt  to  undertake, 

And  not  soon  spent,  though  in  an  arduous  task  ; 

The  pcw'rs  of  fancy  and  strong  thought  are  theirs? 

E'en  age  its  At  seems  privileg'd  in  them 

With  clear  exemption  from  its  own  defects. 

A  sparkling  eye  beneath  a  wrinkled  front 

The  vet'ran  shows,  and.  gracing  a  gray  beard 

With  youthful  smiles,  descends  toward  the  grave 


190  THE    TASK. 

Sprightly,  and  old  almost  without  decay. 

Like  a  coy  maiden,  Ease,  when  courted  most, 
Farthest  retires— an  idol,  at  whose  shrine 
Who  oft 'nest  sacrifice  are  favor'd  least. 
The  love  of  Nature,  and  the  scenes  she  draws, 
Is  Nacnre's  dictate.      Strange  !   tht  re  should  be  found 
Who,  self-imprisoned  in  their  proud  saloons, 
Renounce  the  oiiors  of  the  open  field 
For  the  unscented  fictions  of  the  loom  ; 
Who,  satisfied  with  only  pencili'd  scenes, 
Prefer  to  the  performance  of  a  God 
Th'inferior  wonders  of  an  artist's  hand! 
Lovely  indeed  the'mimic  .vorks  of  Art  ; 
But  Nature's  works  far  lovelier.      I  admire, 
None  more  admires,  the  painter's  magic  skill, 
Who  shows  me  that  which  1  shall  never  see, 
Conveys  a  distant  country  into  mine, 
And  throws  Italian  light  on  English  walls: 
But  imitative  strokes  can  do  no  more 
Than  please  the  eye— sweet  Nature's  ev'ry  sense. 
The  air  salubrious  of  her  lofty  hills, 
The  cheering  fragrance  of  her  dewy  vales, 
And  music  of  her  w^ods — no  works  of  man 
May  rival  these,  these  all  bespeak  a  pow'r 
Peculiar,  and  exclusively  her  own. 
Beneath  the  open  sky  she  spreads  the  feast 
'Tis  free  to  all — 'tis  ev'ry  day  renew'd  ; 
Who  scorns  it  starves  deservedly  at  home. 
He  does  not  scorn  it,  who,  imprison 'd  long 
In  some  unwholesome  dungeon,  and  a  prey 
To  sallow  sickness,  which  the  vapors,  dank 
And  clammy,  of  his  dark  abode  have  bred, 
Escapes  at  last  to  liberty  and  light : 
His  cheek  recover?  soon  its  healthful  hue  ; 
His  eye  relumines  its  extinguish'd  fires; 
He  walks,  he  leaps,  he  runs — is  wing'd  with  joy, 
And  riots  in  the  sweets  of  ev'ry  breeze. 
He  does  not  scorn  it,  who  has  long  endur'd 
A  fever's  agonies,  and  fed  on  drugs. 
Nor  yet  the  mariner,  his  blood  inflam'd 
With  acrid  salts  :  his  very  heart  athirst, 
To  gaze  at  Nature  in  her  green  array, 
Upon  the  ship's  tall  side  he  stands,  possess'd 
With  visions  prompted  by  intense  desire: 
Fair  fields  appear  below,  such  as  he  left 
Far  distant,  such  as  he  would  die  to  find — 
He  seeks  them  headlong,  and  is  seen  no  more. 

The  spleen  is  seldom  felt  where  Flora  reigns, 
The  low' ring  eye,  the  petuhnce,  the  frown, 


THE    TASK.  191 

And  sullen  sadness,  that  o'ershade,  distort, 
And  mar  the  face  of  beauty,  when  no  cause 
For  such  immeasurable  woe  appears, 
These  Flora  banishes,  and  gives  the  fair 
Sweet  smiles,  and  bloom  less  transient  th;'n  her  otvn 
It  is  the  constant  revolution,  stale 
And  tasteless,  of  the  same  repeated  joys, 
That  palls  and  satiates,  and  makes  languid  !:fV 
A  pedlar's  pack,  that  bows  the  bearvr  down. 
Healih  suffers,  and  the  spirits  ebb,  the  heart  • 

Recoils  from  its  own  choice — at  the  full  feast 
Is  famish'd — finds  no  music  in  the  song, 
No  smartness  in  the  jest;    and  wonders  why. 
Yet  thousands  still  desire  to  journey  on, 
Though  halt,  and  weary  of  the  path  they  tread. 
The  paralytic,  who  can  hold  her  cards, 
But  cannot  play  them,  borrows  a  friend's  hand 
To  deal  and  shuffle,  to  divide  and  sort 
Her  mingled  suits  and  sequences  ;   and  sits, 
Spectatress  bo.h  and  spectacle,  a  sad 
And  silent  cipher,  while  her  proxy  plays. 
Others  are  dragg'd  into  the  crowded  room 
Between  supporters  ;   and,  once  seated,  sit, 
Through  downright  inability  to  rise, 
Till  the  stout  bearers  lift  the  corpse  again. 
These  speak  a  loud  memento.       Yet  e'en  these 
Themselves  love  life,  and  cling  to  it,  as  he, 
That  overhangs  a  torrent,  to  a  twig. 
They  love  it,  and  yet  loath  it ;  fear  to  die, 
Yet  scorn  the  purposes  for  which  they  live. 
Then  wherefore  not  renounce  them  ?   No — the  dread, 
The  slavish  dread  of  solitude,  that  breeds 
Reflection  and  remorse,  the  fear  of  shame? 
And  their  invet'rate  habits,  all  forbid. 

Whom  call  we  gay  ?   That  honor  has  been  long 
The  boast  of  mere  pretenders  to  the  name. 
The  innocent  are  gay — the  laik  is  gay, 
That  dries  his  feathers,  saturate  with  dew, 
Beneath  the  rosy  cloud,  while  yet  the  beams 
Of  dayspring  overshoot  his  humble  nest. 
The  peasant  too,  a  witness  of  his  song, 
Himself  a  songster,  is  as  gay  as  he. 
But  save  me  i'rwm  the  gaiety  of  those, 
Whose  headachs  nail  them  to  a  noonday  bed  ; 
And  save  me  too  from  theirs,  whose  haggard  eyes 
Flash  desperation,  and  betray  their  pangs 
For  propel  ty  stripp'd  off  by  cruel  chance  ; 
From  gaiety,  that  fills  the  bones  with  pain, 


192  THE    SOFA. 

The  mouth  with  olasphemy,  the  heart  with  woe. 

The  earth  was  made  so  various,  that  the  mind 
Of  desultory  man,  studious  of  change, 
And  pleas' d  with  novelty,  might  be  indulg'd. 
Prospects,  however  lovely,  may  be  seen 
Till  hah'  their  beauties  fade  ;  the  weary  sight, 
Too  well  acquainted   with  their  smiles,  slides  off 
Fastidious,  seeking  less  familiar  scenes. 
Then  snug  enclosures  in  the  shelter'd  vale, 
Where  frequent  hedges  intercept  the  eye, 
Delight  us  ;  happy  to  renounce  a  while, 
Not  senseless  of  its  charms,  what  still  we  love, 
That  such  short  absence  may  endear  it  more. 
Then  forests,  or  the  savage  rock,  may  please, 
That  hides  the  sea-mew  in  his  hollow  clefts 
Above  the  reach  of  man.      His  hoary  head, 
Conspicuous  many  a  league,  the  mariner 
Bound  homeward,  and  in  hope  already  there, 
Greets  with  three  cheers  exulting.     At  his  waist, 
A  girdle  of  half  wither' d  shrubs  he  shows, 
And  at  his  feet  the  baffled  billows  die. 
The  common,  overgrown  witn  fern,  and  rough 
With  prickly  gorse,  that,  shapeless  and  detoim'd, 
And  dang'rous  to  the  touch,  has  yet  its  bloom 
And  deck  itself  with  ornaments  of  gold, 
Yields  no  unpleasing  ramble  ;  there  the  turf 
Smells  fresh,  and,  rich  in  odorif  rous  herbs 
And  fungous  fruits  of  earth,  regales  the  sense 
With  luxury  of  unexpected  sweets. 

There  often  wanders  one,  whom  better  days 
Saw  better  clad,  in  cloak  of  si.rin  trimm'd 
With  lace,  and  hat  with  splendid  ribbon  bound. 
A  serving  maid  was  she,  and  fell  in  love 
With  one  who  left  her,  went  to  sea,  and  died. 
Her  fancy  follow'd  him  through  foaming  waves 
To  distant  shores  ;  and  she  would  sit  and  weep 
At  what  a  sailor  suffers  ;  fancy  too, 
Delusive  most  where  warmest  wishes    are, 
Would  oft  anticipate  his  glad  return, 
And  dream  of  transports  she  was  not  to  know. 
She  heard  the  doleful  tidings  of  his  death — 
And  never  smil'd  again !    and  now  she  roams 
The  dreary  waste  ;   there  spends  the  livelong  day, 
And  there,  unless  when  c'larity  forbids, 
The  livelong  night.       A  tatter'd  apron  hides, 
Worn  as  a  cloak,  and  hardly  hides,  a  gown 
More  tatter'd  still  ;  and  both  but  ill  «oneeal 
A  bosom  heav'd  with  never  ceasing  sighs. 
She  begs  an  idle  pin  of  all  she  meets, 


THE  TASK. 

And  hoards  thorn  in  her  sleeve  ;  but  needful  food, 
Though  piess'd  with  hunger  oft,  or  comelier  clothes, 
Though  pinch'd  with  cold,  asks  never.  —  Kate  is  craz'd. 

1  see  a  column  of  slow-rising  smoke 
O'ertop  the  lofty  wood   that  skirts  the  wild. 
A  vagabond  and  useless  tribe  there  cat 
Their  miserable  meal.     A  kettle,  slung 
Between  two  poles  upon  a  stick  transverse, 
Receives  the   morsel — flesh  obscene  of  dog, 
Or  vermin,  or  at  best  of  cock  purloin'd 
From  liis  accustom'd  perch.     Hard  faring  race  !  • 
They  pick  their  fuel  out  of  ev'ry  hedge, 
"Which.  kindled  with  dry  leaves,  just  saves  unquench'd 
The  spark  of  life.     The  sportive  wind  blows  wide 
Their  rlutt'ring  rags,  and  shows  a  tawny  skin, 
The  vellum  of  the  pedigree  they  claim 
Great  skill  have  they  in  palmistry,  and  more 
To  conjure  clean  away  the  gold  they  touch, 
Conveying  worthless  dross  into  its  place  ; 
Loud  when  they  beg,  dumb  only  when  they  steal. 
Strange!   that  a  creature  rational,  and  cast 
In  human  mould,  should  brutalize  by  choice 
His  nature;   and,  though  capable  of  arts, 
By  which  the  world  might  profit,  and  himself, 
Self-banish'd  from  society,  prefer 
Such  squalid  sloth  to   honorable  toil  ! 
Yet  %ven  these,  though  feigning  sickness  oft 
They  swathe  the    forehead,  drag  the  limping  limb, 
And  vt'X  their  flesh  with  artificial  sores, 
Can  change  their  whine  into  a  mirthful  note, 
\\hen  safe  occasion  offers;  «nd  with  dance, 
And  music  of  the  bladder  and  the  bag, 
Beguile  their  woes,  and  make  the  woods  resound. 
Such  health  and  gaiety  of  heart  enjoy 
The  houseless  rovers  of  the  sylvan  world  ; 
And,  breathing  wholesome  air,  and  wand'ring  much, 
Need  other  physic  none  to  heal  th'  ettecis 
Of  loathsome  diet,  penury,  and  cold. 

Blest  he,  though  undistinguished  from  the  crowd 
By  wealth  or  dignity,  who  dwells  secure, 
Where  man,  by  nature  fierce,  has  laid  aside 
His  fierceness,  having  learnt,  though  slow  to  learn, 
The  manners  and  the  arts  of  civil  life. 
His  wants  indeed  are  many;  but  supply 
Is  obvious,  plai'd  within  the  easy  reach 
Of  temperate  wishes  and  industrious  hands. 
Here  virtue  thrives  as  in  her  proper  soil  ; 
Not  nude  and  surly,  and  beset  with  thorns, 
Arid  terrible  to  sight,  as  when  she  springs 


194  THE 

(If  e'er  she  spring  spontaneous)  in  ,  emote 

And  barbarous    limes,  where  violence  prevails, 

And  strength  is  lord  of  all ;  but  gentle,  kind, 

By  culture  tarn'd,  by  liberty  rt-fresh'd, 

And  all  her  fruits  by  radiant  truth  matured. 

War  and  the  chace  engross  the  savage  whole; 

War  followed  for  revenge,  or  to  supplant] 

The  envied  tenants  of  some  happier  spot : 

The  chace  for  sustenance,  precarious  trust ! 

His  hard  condition  with  severe  constraint 

Binds  all  his  faculties,  forbids  all  growth 

Of  wisdom,  proves  a  school,  in  which  he  learns 

Sly  circumvention,  unrelenting  hate, 

Mean  self-attachment,  and  scarce  aught  beside 

Thus  fares  the  shiv'ring  natives  of  the  north, 

And  thus  the  rangers  of  the  western  world, 

Where  it  advances  far  into  the  deep, 

Tow'rds  the  antartic.     E'en  the  favored  isles 

So  lately  found,  although  the  constant  sun 

Cheer  all  their  seasons  with  a  grateful  smile, 

Can  boast  but  little  virtue  ;  and  inert 

Through  plenty,  lose  in  morals,  what  they  gain 

In  manners — victims  of  luxurious  ease. 

These  therefore  I  can  pity,  plac'd  remote 

From  all  that  science  traces,  art  invents, 

Or  inspiration  teaches  ;  and  enclos'd 

In  boundless  oceans,  never  to  be  pass'd 

By  navigators  uninformed  as  they, 

Or  plough' d  perhaps  by  British  bark  again  : 

But  far  beyond  the  rest,  and  wich  most  cause, 

Thee,  gentle  savage  !*  whom  no  love  of  thee 

Or  thine,  but  curiosity  perhaps, 

Or  else  vain  glory,  prompted  us  to  draw 

Forth  from  thy  native  bow'rs,  to  show  thee  here 

With  what  superior  skill  we  can  abuse 

The  gifts  of  Providence,  and  squander  life. 

The  dream  is  past;  and  thou  hast  found  again 

Thy  cocoas  and  bananas,  palms  and  yams, 

And  homestall  thatch'd  with  leaves.     But  hast  thou  fouud 

Their  lormer  charms  ?   And,  having  seen  our  stale, 

Our  palaces,  our  ladies,  and  our  pomp 

Of  equipage,  our  gardens,  and  our  sports, 

And  heard  our  music;  are  thy  simple  friends, 

Thy  simple  fare,  and  all  thy  plain  delights, 

As  dear  to  thee  as  once  ?      And  have  thy  joys 

Lost  nothing  by  comparison  with  ours  ? 

Rude  as  thou  art  (for  we  returned  thee  rude 

*  Omai. 


THS    SOFA.  195 

And  ignorant  except  of  outward  show) 

I  cannot  think  thee  yet  so  dull  of  heart 

And  spiritless,  as  never  to  regret 

Sweets  tasted  here,  and  left  as  soon  as  known. 

Methinks  I  see  thee  straying  on  the  beach, 

And  asking  of  the  surge,  that  bathes  thy  foot. 

If  ever  it  has  wash'd  our  distant  shoie, 

1  see  thee  weep,  and  thine  are  honest  tears, 

A  patriot's  for  his  country:   thou  art  sail 

At  thought  of  her  forlorn  and  abject  state, 

From  which  no  pow'r  of  thine  can  raise  her  up. 

Thus  Fancy  paints  thee,  and,  though  apt  to  err, 

Perhaps  errs  little  when  she  paints  thee  thus. 

She  tells  me  too,  that  duly  ev'ry  morn 

Thou  climb'st  the  mountain  top,  with  eager  eye 

Exploring  far  and  wide  the  vvat'ry  waste 

For  sight  of  ship  from  England.      Ev'iy  speck 

Seen  in  the  dim  horizon  turns  thee  pale 

\Vith  conflict  ef  contending  hopes  and  fears. 

But  comes  at  last  the  dull  'and  dusky  eve, 

And  sends  thee  to  thy  cabin,  well  prepar'd 

To  dream  all  night  of  what  the  day  denied. 

Alas  !   expect  it  not.     We  found  no  bait 

To  tempt  us  in  thy  country.     Doing  good, 

Disinterested  good,  is  not  our  trade. 

We  travel  far,  'tis  true,  but  not  for  nought  ; 

And  must  be  bribed  to  compass  Earth  again 

By  other  hopes  and  richer  fruits  than  yours. 

But  though  true  worth  and  virtue  in  the  mild 
And  genial  soil  of  cultivated  life 
Thrive  most,  and  may  perhaps  thrive  only  there, 
Yet  not  in  cities  oft :  in  proud,  and  gay, 
And  gain-devoted  cities.     Thither  flow, 
As  to  a  common  raid  most  noison  e  sewer, 
The  dregs  and  feculence  of  ev'ry  land. 
In  cities  foul  example  on  most  minds 
Begets  its  likeness.      Rank  abundance  breeds, 
In  gross  and  pan.pered  cities,  sloth,  and  lust, 
And  wantonness,  and  gluttonous  excess. 
In  cities  vice  is  hidden  with  most  ease, 
Or  seen  with  least  reproach  ;   and  virtue,  taught 
By  frequent  lapse.  -;an  hope  no  triun  ph  there 
Beyond  th'  achievement  of  successful  flight. 
I  do  confess  them  nurs'ries  of  the  art 
In  which  they  flourish  mo>t  ;  \\here,  in   the  beams 
Of  warm  encouragement,  and  in  the  eye 
Of  public  note,  they  uaeh  their  perfect  size. 
Such  London  is,  by  taste  and  wealth  proclaimed 
The  fairest  capital  of  ail  the  world, 


196  fHE    TASK. 

By  riot  and  incontinence  the  worst. 

There,  touch'd  by  Reynolds,  a  dull  blank  becomes 

A  lucid  mirror,  in  which  Nature  sees 

All  her  reflected  features.      Bacon  there 

Gives  more  than  female  beauty  to  a  stone, 

And  Chatham's  eloquence  to  marble  lips. 

Nor  does  the  chisel  occupy  alone 

Th  >  pow'rs  of  sculpture,  but  the  styl?  as  much  ; 

Each  province  of  her  art  her  equal  care. 

With  nice  incision  of  her  guided  steel 

She  ploughs  a  brazen  field,  and  clothes  a  soil 

So  sterile  with  what  charms  soe'er  she  will, 

The  richest  scen'ry  and  the  loveliest  forms. 

Where  finds  Philosophy  her  eagle  eye, 

Wi.h  which  she  gazes  at  yon  burning  disk 

Undazzled,  and  detects  arid  counts  his  spots? 

In  London.     Where  her  implements  exact, 

With  which  she  calculates,  computes,  and  scans 

All  distance,  motion,  magnitude,  and  now 

Measures  an  atom,  and  now  gilds  a  world  1 

In  London.      Where  has  commerce  such  a  mart, 

So  rich,  so  throng'd,  so  drain'd,  and  so  supplied, 

As  London — opulent,  enlarg'd,  and  still 

Increasing  London  ?   Babylon  of  old 

Not  more  the  glory  of  the  earth  than  she, 

A  more  accomplish'd  world's  chief  glory  now. 

She  has  her  praise.     Now  mark  a  spot  or  two, 
That  so  much  beauty  would  do  well  to  purge  ; 
And  show  this  queen  of  cities,  that  so  fair 
May  yet  be  foul  ;  so  vvicty,  yet  not  wise. 
It  is  not  seemly,  nor  of  good  report, 
That  she  is  slack  in  discipline  ;   more  prompt 
T'  avenge  than  to  prevent  the  breach  of  law  • 
That,  she  is  rigid  in  denouncing  death 
On  petty  robbers,  and  indulges  life 
And  liberty,  and  oftimes  honor  too, 
To  peculators  of  the  public  gold  : 
That  thieves  at  home  must  hang,  but  he,  that  pnts 
Into  his  overgorg'i!  and  bloated  purse 
The  wealth  of  Indian  provinces,  escapes. 
Nor  is  it  well,  nor  can  it  come  to  good, 
That,  thi-ongh  profane  and  infidel  contempt 
Of  holy  writ,  she  has  presum'd  t'annu' 
And  abrogate,  as  roundly  a^  she  may, 
The    otai  ordinance  and  will  of  (Joel  ; 
Advancing  Fashion  to  the  post  of  Tiuth. 
And  centering  all  authority  in  modes 
And  customs  <>t  her  own,  till  sabbath  rites 
Have  dwindled  into  uninspected  forms, 


THE    SOFA.  197 

And  knees  and  hassocks  are  well-nigh  divorc'd. 

God  made  the  country,  aml_maiTjnade  the  town. 
W  h  at  Avoiide7Then~th~atheal  t  h  and  virtue,  gifts 
That  cai.  alone  make  sweet  the  bitter  draught 
That  life  holds  out  to  all,  should  most  abound 
And  least  be  threatened  in  the  fields  and  groves  ? 
Possess  ye  therefore,  ye  who.  borne  ahcut 
In  chariots  and  sedans,  know  no  fatigue 
But  that  of  idleness,  and  taste  no  scenes 
But  such  as  art  contrives,  possess  ye  still 
Your  element ,  there  only  can  ye  shine  ; 
There  only  minds  like  yours  can  do  no  harm. 
Our  groves  were  planted  to  console  at  noon 
The  pensive  wand'rer  in  their  shades.     At  eve 
The  moon-beam,  sliding  softly  in  between 
The  sleeping;  leave?,  is  all  the  light  they  wish, 
Birds  warbling  all  the  music.      We  can  spare 
The  splendor  of  your  lamps  ;  they  but  eclipse 
Our  softer  satellite.     Your  songs  confound 
Our  more  harmonious  notes:  the  thrush  departs 
Scar'd,  and  th'offended  nightingale  is  mute. 
There  is  a  public  mischief  in  your  mirth  ; 
It  plagues  your  country.     Folly  such  as  yours, 
Grac'd  with  a  sword,  and  worthier  of  a  fan, 
Has  made,  what  enemies  could  ne'er  have  done 
Our  arch  of  empire,  stedfast  but  for  you, 
A  mutilated  structure,  isoon  to  fall. 


THE  TASK. 

BOOK  II. 

THE  TIME-PIECE. 

ARGUMENT  OF  THE  SECOND  BOOK. 

Reflections  suggested  by  the  conclusion  of  the  former  book. — 1'eace 
among  the  nations  recommended,  on  the  ground  of  their  common  fellow- 
ship in  sorrow. — Prodigies  enumerated. — Sicilian  earthquakes. — Man 
rendered  obnoxious  to  these  calamities  by  sin.— God  the  agent  in  them. 
— The  philosophy  that  stops  at  secondary  causes  reproved. — Our  own 
late  miscarriages  accounted  for. — Satirical  notice  taken  of  our  trips  to 
Fontaine-Bleau. — But  the  pulpit,  not  satire,  the  proper  engine  of  refor- 
mation.— The  Reverend  Advertiser  of  engraved  sermons. —  Fetit-maitre 
parson. — The  good  preacher. — Picture  of  a  theatrical  clerical  coxcomb. 
— Story-tellers  and  jesters  in  the  pulpit  reproved. — Apostrophe  to  popu- 
lar appl.tuse. — Retailers  of  ancient  philosophy  expostulated  with. — Sum 
of  the  whole  matter. — Effects  of  sacerdotal  mismanagement  on  the  laity. 
— Their  folly  and  extravagance. — The  mischiefs  of  profusion. — Profusion 
itself,  with  all  its  consequent  evils,  ascribed,  as  to  its  principal  cause,  to 
the  want  of  discipline  in  the  universities. 

O  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 
\Vhere  rumor  of  oppression  and  deceit, 
Of  unsuccessful  ot  successful  war, 
Might  never  reach  me  more.     My  ear  is  pain'd, 
My  soul  is  sick  with  ev'ry  days  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  Earth  is  fill'd. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart, 
It  does  not  feel  for  man  ;  the  nat'ral  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  sever'd  as  the  flax, 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  tire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Not  color'd  like  his  own  ;  and  having  pow'r 
T'enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abiior  each  other.     Mountains  interpos'd 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else 
Like  kiadred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 


THE    TIME-PIECE.  199 

Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys  ; 
And,  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplur'd 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripes,  that  mercy  with  a  bleeding  heart 
Weeps,  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 
Then  uhdt  is  man  ?      And  what  man,  seeing  tins, 
And  having  human  feelii>gs,  does  not  blush, 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ? 
1  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  m\  ground, 
To  carry  me,  to  Ian  me  while  I  sleep, 
And  tremble4  when  1  wake,  tor  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earn'd, 
JXo:  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  piiz'd  above  all  price, 
I  had  much  rather  he  myself  the  slave, 
And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home — then  why  abroad  ? 
And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loos'd. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England;   if  their  lungs 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free ; 
They  touch  our  couniry,  and  their  shackles  fall. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then, 
And  let  it  circulate  through  ev'ry  vein 
Of  all  your  empire  ;  that,  where  Britain's  pow'r 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 
Sure  there  is  need  of  social  intercourse, 
Benevolence,  and  peace,  and  mutual  aid, 
Between  the  nations  in  a  world,  that  seems 
To  toll  the  de  th-bill  of  its  own  decease, 
And  by  the  voice  of  ail  its  elements 
To  preach  the  gen'ral  doom.*     When  were  the  winds 
Let  slip  with  such  a  warrant  to  destroy  ? 
When  did  the  waves  so  haughtily  o'erleap 
Their  ancient  barriers,  deluging  the  dry  ? 
Fires  from  beneath,  and  meteors  f  from  above, 
.Portentous,  unexampled,  unexplain'd, 
Have  kindled  beacons  in  the  skies  ;   and  th'  old 
Anu  crazy  Earth  has  had  her  shaking  fits 
More  frequent,  and  foregone  her  usual  rest. 
Is  it  a  tune  to  wrangle,  when  the  props 
And  pillars  of  our  planet  seem  to  fail, 
And  NatureJ  with  a  dim  and  sickly  eye 

• 

*  Alluding  to  the  calamities  in  Jamaica, 
t  August  18,  17S3. 

t  Alluding  to  the  log,  that  covered  both  Europe  and  Asia  during  the 
Whole  bummer  of 


200  TIIS    TASK. 

To  wait  the  close  of  all  ?      But  grant  her  end 
More  distant,  and  that  prophesy  demands 
A  longer  respite,  unaccomplished  yet ; 
Still  they  are  frowning  signals,  and  bespeak 
Displeasure  in  His  breast,  who  smites  the  Eauh 
Or  heals  it,  makes  it  languish  or  rejoice. 
And  'tis  but  seemly,  that,  where  all  deserve 
And  stand  t-xpos'u  by  common  peccancy 
To  what  no  tew  have  felt,  there  should  be  peace, 
And  brethren  in  calamity  should  love. 
Alas  for  Sicily!  rude  fragments  now 
Lie  scatter'd,  where  the  shapely  column  stood. 
Her  palaces  are  dust.      In  all  her  streets 
The  voice  of  singing  and  the  sprightly  chord 
Are  silent.      Revelry,  and  dance,  and  show, 
Suffer  a  syncope  and  solemn  pause  ; 
"While  God  performs  upon  the  trembling  stage 
Of  his  own  works  his  dreadful  part  alone. 
How  does  the  Earth  receive  him? — with  what  signs 
Of  gratulution  and  delight  her  king? 
Pours  she  not  all  her  choicest  fruits  abroad, 
Her  sweetest  ilow'rs,  her  aromatic  gums, 
Disclosing  Paradise  where'er  she  treads  ? 
She  quakes  at  his  approach.     Her  hollow  womb, 
Conceiving  thunders,  through  a  thousand  deeps 
And  fiery  caverns,  roars  beneath  his  toot. 
The  hills  move  lighcly.  and  the  mountains  smoke, 
For  he  has  touch'd  them.      From  th'extremest  poin 
Of  elevation  down  into  the  abyss 
His  wrath  is  busy,  and  his  frown  is  felt. 
The  rocks  fall  headlong,  and  the  valleys  rise. 
The  rivers  die  into  offensive  pools, 
And,  charg'd  with  putrid  verdure,  breathe  a  gross 
And  mortal  nuisance  into  all  the  air. 
What  solid  was,  by  transformation  strange, 
Grows  fluid  ;  and  the  fix'd  and  rooted  earth, 
Tormented  into  billows,  heaves  arid  swells, 
Or  with  vertiginous  and  hideous  whirl 
Sucks  down  its  prey  insatiable.     Immense 
The  tumult  and  the  overthrow,  the  pangs 
And  agonies  of  human  and  of  brute 
Multitudes,  fugitive  on  ev'ry  side, 

nd  iugitive  in  vain.     The  sylvan  scene 
Migrates  uplifted;  and,  with  all  its  soil 
A  lighting  in  far  distant  fields,  finds  out 
A  new  posses'sor,  and  survives  the  change 
Ocean  has  caught  the  frenzy,  and,  up  wrought 
To  an  enormous  and  o'er  bearing  height, 
Not  by  a  mighty  wind,  but  by  that  voice,  •  , 


THE    TJN.E-PIECE.  L01 

Which  winds  and  waves  obey,  invades  the  shore 
Resistless.     Never  such  a  sudden  Hood, 
Upridg'd  so  high,  and  sent  on  such  a  charge, 
Possess'd  an  inland  scene.     Where  now  the  throng, 
That  press'd  the  beach,  and,  hasty  to  depart, 
Look'd  to  the  sea  for  safety?  They  are  gone, 
Gone  with  the  refluent  wave  into  the  deep  — 
A  prince  with  half  his  people!    Ancient  tow  rs, 
And  roofs  embattled  high,  the  gloomy  scenes, 
Where  beauty  oft  and  letter'd  wo  th  consume 
Life  in  the  unproductive  sha  les  of  death, 
Fail  prone:   the  pale  inhabitants  come  furth, 
And,  happy  in  their  unforeseen  release 
From  all  the  rigors  of  restraint,  enjoy 
The  terrors  of  the  day,  that  sets  them  free. 
Who  then,  that  has  thee,  would  not  hold  thee  fast, 
Freedom  ?   whom  they  that  lose  thee  so  regret, 
That  e'en  a  judgment,  making  way  for  thee, 
Seems  in  their  eyes  a  mercy  for  thy  sake  .' 

Such  evils  Sin  hath  wrought  ;  and  such  a  flame 
Kindled  iu  Heav'n,  that  it  burns  down  to  Eaith, 
And  in  the  furious  inquest,  that  it  makes 
On  God's  behalf,  lays  waste  his  fairest  works. 
The  very  elements,  though  each  be  meant 
The  minister  of  man,  to  serve  his  wants, 
Conspire  against  him.     With  his  breath  he  draws 
A  plague  into  his  blood  ;  and  cannot  use 
Life's  necessary  means,  but  he  must  die. 
Storms  rise  t'o'erwhelm  him:   or,  if  stormy  whu!s 
Rise  not.  the  waters  of  the  deep  shall  rise, 
And,  needing  none  assistance  of  the  stonn, 
Shall  roll  themselves  ashore,  and  reach  him  there. 
The  earth  shall  shake  him  out  of  all  his  holds, 
Or  make  his  house  his  grave:   nor  so  content, 
Shall  counterfeit  the  motions  of  the  flood. 
And  drokvn  him  in  her  dry  and  dusty  gulfs. 
What  then  ! — were  they  the  .vicked  above  all, 
And  we  the  righteous,  whose  fast-anchor'd  isle 
Mov'd  not,  while  theirs  was  rock'd.  lik^  a  n^nt  skiff, 
The  sport  of  ev'ry  wave  ?    No:   none  are  elear, 
And  none  than  we  more  guilty.      But,  where  alJ 
Stand  chargeable  with  guilt,  and  to  the  shafts 
Of  wrath  obnoxious,  God  may  choose  his  mark: 
May  punish,  if  he  p!ea>e,  the  less,  to  warn 
The  more  malignant.      If  lie  spar'd  not  them, 
Tremble  a, id  be  ama/'d  at  thine  escape, 
Far  guiltier  Kngl  ;nd,  lest  he  spate  not  thee! 
Happy  the  man,  who  sees  a  God  employ'd 
In  aiJ  the  good  and  ill,  that  checker  life! 


202  THE    TASK. 

Resolving  all  events,  with  their  effect* 
And  manifold  results,  into  the  will 
And  arbitration  wise  of  the  Supreme. 
Did  not  his  eye  rule  all  things,  and  intend 
The  least  of  our  concerns  (since  from  the  least 
The  greatest  oft  originate)  ;  could  chance 
Find  place  in  his  dominion,  or  dispose 
One  lawless  particle  to  thwart  his  plan  ; 
Then  God  might  be  surpris'd,  and  unforeseen 
Contingence  might  alarm  him,  and  disturb 
The  smooch  and  equal  course  of  his  affairs. 
This  truth  Philosophy,  though  eagle-ey'd 
In  nature's  tendencies,  oft  overlooks  ; 
And,  having  found  his  instrument,  forgets, 
Or  disregards,  or,  more  presumptuous  still, 
Denies,  the  pow'r  that  wields  it.     God  proclaims 
His  hot  displeasure  against  foolish  men, 
That  live  an  atheist  life  :  involves  the  Heav'n 
In  tempests  ;  quits  his  grasp  upon  the  winds, 
And  gives  them  all  their  fury  ;   bids  a  plague 
Kindle  a  fiery  boil  upon  the  skin, 
And  putrefy  the  breath  of  blooming  Health. 
He  calls  for  Famine,  and  the  meagre  fiend 
Blows  mildew  from  between  his  shrivell'd  lips, 
And  taints  the  golden  ear.     He  springs  his  mines, 
And  desolates  a  nation  at  a  blast. 
Forth  steps  the  spruce  philosopher,  and  tells 
Of  homogeneal  and  discordant  springs 
And  principles  ;  of  causes,  how  they  work 
By  necessary  laws  their  sure  effects  ; 
Of  action  and  reaction  :  he  has  found 
The  source  of  the  disease,  that  nature  feels, 
And  bids  the  world  .take  heart  and  banish  fear. 
Thou  fool !  will  thy  discov'ry  of  the  cause 
Suspend  th'effect,  or  heal  it?   Has  not  God 
Still  wrought  by  means  since  first  he  made  the  world? 
And  did  he  not  of  old  employ  his  means 
To  drown  it  ?  What  is  his  creation  less 
Than  a  capacious  reservoir  of  means 
Form'd  for  his  use,  and  ready  at  his  will  ? 
Go,  dress  thine  eyes  with  eye-salve  ;   ask  of  him, 
Or  ask  of  whomsoever  he  has  taught ; 
And  learn,  though  late,  the  genuine  cause  of  all. 
England,  with  all  thv  faults,  I  love  thee  still — 
My  country  !  and,  while  yet  a  nook  is  left, 
Where  English  minds  and  manners  may  be  found. 
Shall  be  constraint  to  love  thee.     Though  thy  chire 
Be  fickle,  and  thy  year  most  part  deform \1 
With  dripping  rains,  or  vvither'd  by  afio:>t, 


THE    TIME-PIECE.  203 

I  would  not  yet  exchange  thy  sullen  skies, 

And  fields  without  a  tiovv'r,  for  warmer  France 

With  all  her  vines  :   nor  for  Ausonia's  groves 

Of  golden  fruitage,  and  her  myrtle  bow'rs. 

To  shvike  thy  senate,  and  from  heights  sublime 

Of  patriot  eloquence  to  flash  down  fire 

Upon  thy  foes,  was  never  meant  my  task  : 

But  I  can  fe-1  thy  fortunes,  a; id  partake 

Thy  joys  and  sorrows,  with  as  true  a  heart 

As  any  thund'rer  there.      And  I  can  feel 

Thy  follies  too;  and  with   a  just  disdain 

Frown  at  effeminates,  whose  very  looks 

Reflect  dishonor  on  the  land  I  love. 

How,  in  t!ie  name  of  soldiership  and  sens-, 

Should  England  prosper,  when  such  thin        as  smooth 

And  tender  as  a  girl,  all  essenc'd  o'er 

With  odors,  aod  as  profligate  as  sweet ; 

Who  sell  their  laurel  for  a  myrtle  wreath, 

And  love  when  they  should  figat;  when  such  as  these 

Presume  to  lay  their  hands  upon  the  a  k 

Of  her  magnificent  and  awful  cause  I 

Time  was  when  it  was  praise  and  boast  enough 

In  ev'ry  clime,  and  travel  where  we  might, 

That  we  were  born  her  children.   Praise  enough 

To  fill  th'auibition  of  a  private  man, 

That  Chatham's  language  was  his  mother  tongue, 

And  \Volfe' s  great  name  compatriot  with  his  own. 

Farewell  those  honors.  airJ  farewell  with  them 

The  hope  of  such  hereafter!   They  have  fall'u 

Each  in  his  field  of  glory  ;  one  in  arms, 

And  o:  e  in  council — Wolfe  upon  the  lap 

Of  smilin"-  Victoiy  that  moment  won, 

And  Chatham  heart-sick  of  his  country's  shame  ! 

They  made  us  many  soldiers.     Chatham,  still 

Consulting  England's  happiness  at  home, 

Secur'd  it  by  an  unforgiving  frown, 

If  any  wrong'd  her.     Wolfe,  where'er  he  fought, 

Put  so  much  of  his  heart  into  his  act, 

That  his  example  had  a  magnet's  force, 

And  all  were  swift  to  touow  wnom  all  lov  d. 

Those  suns  are  set.     O  rise  some  other  such ! 

Or  all  that  we  have  lt>ft  is  empty  tali 

Of  old  achievements,  and  despair  of  new. 

Now  hoist  the  sail,  and  let  the  streamers  float 
Upon  the  wanton  bree7.es.     Strew  the  deck 
With  lavender,  and  sprinkle  liquid  sweets, 
That  no  rude  savor  maritime  invade 
The  nose  of  nice  nobility  !      Breathe  soft 
Ye  clarionets,  and  softer  still  ye  flutes ; 


204  THF  T  •  e-r. 

That  winds  and  waters,  lull'd  by  magic  sound*, 
May  bear  us  smoothly  to  the  Gallic  shore  ! 
True,  we  have  lost  an  empire — let  it  pass. 
True  ;  we  may  thank  the  perfidy  of  France, 
That  pick'd  the  jewel  out  of  England's  crown, 
With  all  the  cunning  of  an  envious  shrsw. 
And  let  that  pass — 'twas  but  a  trick  of  state  ! 
A  brave  man  knows  no  malice,  but  at  once 
Forgets  in  peace  the  injuries  of  war, 
And  gives  his  direst  foe  a  friend's  embrace. 
And,  sham'd  as  we  have  been,  to  th'very  beard 
Brav'd  and  defied,  and  in  our  own  sea  prov'd 
Too  weak  for  those  decisive  blows,  that  once 
Ensur'd  us  mast'ry  there,  we  yet  retain 
Some  small  pre-eminence  ;   we  justly  boast 
At  least  superior  jockeyship,  and  claim 
The  honors  of  the  turf  as  all  our  own  ! 
Go  then,  well  worthy  of  the  praise  ye  seek, 
And  show  the  shame,  ye  might  conceal  at  home, 
In  foreign  eyes! — be  grooms  and  win  the  plate, 
Where  once  your  nobler  fathers  won  a  crown! — 
'Tisgen'ious  to  communicate  your  skill 
To  those  that  need  it.     Folly  is  soon  learn'd  : 
i    And  under  such  preceptors  who  can  fail ! 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains, 
Which  only  poets  know.     The  shifts  -md  turns, 
Th'expedients  and  inventions  multiform, 
To  which  the  mind  resorts,  in  chase  of  terms 
Though  apt,  yet  coy,  and  difficult  to  win— 
T'arrest  the  Meeting  images,  that  rill 
The  mirror  of  the  mind,  and  hold  them  tast, 
And  force  them  sit,  till  he  has  pencil'd  off' 
A  faithful  likemss  of  the  forms  he  views; 
Then  to  dispose  his  copies  with  such  art. 
That  each  may  find  its  most  propitious  light, 
And  shine  by  situation,  hardly  less 
Than  by  the  labor  and  the  skill  it  cost; 
Are  occupations  of  the  poet's  mind 
So  pleasing,  and  that  steal  away  the  thought 
With  such  address  from  themes  of  sad  import, 
That,  lost  in  his  own  musings,  happy  man ! 
He  feels  th'anxieties  of  life,  denied 
Their  wonted  entertainment,  all  retire. 
Such  joys  has  he  that  sings.    But  ah  !  not  such, 
Or  seldom  such,  the  hearers  of  his  song. 
Fastidious,  or  else  listless,.or  perhaps 
Aware  of  nothing  arduous  in  a  task 
They  never  undertook,  they  little  note 
His  dangers  or  escapes,  and  haply  find 


THE    TIME  .  20A 

Their  least  amusement  where  he  found  the  most. 
But  is  amusement  all  ?      Studious  of  song, 
And  yet  ambitious  not  to  sing  in  vain, 
I  would  not  trifle  merely,  though  the  world 
Be  loudest  in  their  prais  •,  who  do  no  more. 
Yet  what  can  satire,  whether  grave  or  gay  ? 
It  may  correct  a  foible,  may  chastise 
The  freaks  of  fashion,  regulate  the  dress, 
Retrench  a  sword-blade,  or  displace  a  patch  ; 
But  \\liere  are  its  subiimer  trophies  found  ? 
What  vice  has  it  subdued?  whose  heart  reclaim'd 
Jiy  r'gor,  or  whom  laugh 'd  into  reform  ? 
Alas!   Leviathan  is  not  so  lam'd: 
Laugh'd  at  he  laughs  again  ;  and  stricken  hard, 
Turns  to  the  stroke  his  adamantine  scales, 
That  fear  no  discipline  of  human  hands. 

The  pulpit,  therefore  (and  I  name  it  fill'd 
With  solemn  awe,  that  bids  me  well  beware 
V>  ith  what  intent  I  touch  that  holy  thing) — 
The  pulpit  (when  the  sat'rist  has  at  last, 
Strutting  and  vap'ring  in  an  empty  school, 
Spent  all  his  force,  and  made  no  proselyte)— 
I  say  the  pulpit  (in  the  sober  use 
Of  its  legitimate,  peculiar  pow'rs) 

r»!ust  stand  acknowledg  d,  while  the  world  shall  stand, 
The  most  important  and  effectual  guard, 
Support,  and  ornament  of  Virtue's  cause, 
'i  litre  stands  the   messenger  of  truth  :   there  stands 
1  he  legate  of  the  skies  1 — His  theme  divine, 
His  office  sacred,  his  credentials  clear. 
By  him  the  violated  law  speaks  out 
Its  thunders;  and  by  him,  in  strains  as  sweet 
As  angels  use,  the  Gospel  whispers  peace. 
He  stablishes  the  strong,  restores  the  weak, 
Reclaims  the  wand'rer,  binds  the  broken  heart, 
And,  arm'd  himself  in  panoply  complete 
Of  heav'nly  temper,  furnishes  with  arms 
Bright  as  his  own,  and  trains,  by  ev'ry  rule 
Of  holy  discipline,  to  glorious  war, 
The  sacramental  host  of  God's  elect ! 
Are  all  such  teachers  ?-•—  would  to  Heav'n  all  were  I 
But  hark — the  doctor's  voice  ! — fast  wedg'd  between 
Two  empirics  he  stands,  and  with  swol'n  cheeks 
Inspires  the  news,  his  trumpet.     Keener  far 
Than  all  invective  is  his  bold  harangue, 
While  through  that  public  organ  jf  report 
He  hails  the  clergy  ;  and,  defying  shame. 
Announces  to  the  world  his  own  and  theirs! 
He  teaches  those  to  read,  whom  schools  dismiss'd, 

T 


206  THE  TASK. 

And  colleges,  untaught ;  sells  accent,  tone, 

And  emphasis  in  score,  and  gives  to  pray'r 

Th'  adagio  and  andante  it  demands. 

He  grinds  divinity  of  other  days 

Down  into  modern  use  ;  transforms  old  print 

To  zigztg  manuscript,  and  cheats  the  eyes 

Of  gal  Try  critics  hy  a  thousand  arts. 

Are  there  who  purchase  of  the  doctor's  ware  ? 

O,  name  it  not  in  Gath  ! — it  cannot  be, 

That  grave  and  learned  clerks  should  need  such  aid. 

He  doubtless  is  in  sport,  and  does  but  droll, 

Assuming  thus  a  rank  unknown  before — 

Grand  caterer  and  dry-nurse  of  the  church  I 

I  venerate  the  man,  whose  heart  is  warm, 
\Vhose  hands  are  pure,  whose  doctrine  and  whose  life 
Coincident,  exhibit  lucid  pi  oof 
That  he  is  honest  in  the  sacred  cause. 
To  such  I  render  more  than  mere  respect, 
"Whose  actions  say,  chat  they  respect  themselves. 
But  loose  in  morals,  and  in  manners  vain, 
In  conversation  frivolous,  in  dress 
Extreme,  at  once  rapacious  and  profuse ; 
Frequent  in  park  with  lady  at  his  side, 
Ambling  and  pn.ttling  scandal  as  he  goes; 
But  rare  at  home,  and  never  at  his  books, 
Or  with  his  pen,  save  when  he  scrawls  a  card  ; 
Constant  at  routs,  familiar  with  around 
Of  ladyships,  a  stranger  to  the  poor; 
Ambitious  of  preferment  for  its  gold, 
And  well-prepar'd,  by  ignorance  and  sloth, 
By  infidelity  and  love  of  world, 
To  make  God's  work  a  sinecure ;  a  slave 
To  his  own  pleasures  and  his  patron's  pride; 
From  such  apostles,  O  ye  mitred  heads, 
Preserve  the  church  !  and  lay  not  careless  hands 
On  sculls,  that  cannot  teach,  and  will  not  learn. 

Would  I  describe  a  preacher,  such  as  Paul, 
Were  he  on  earth,  would  hear,  approve,  and  own, 
Paul  should  himself  direct  me.     I  would  trace 
His  master-strokes,  and  draw  from  his  design. 
I  would  express  him  simple,  grave,  sincere ; 
In  doctrine  uncorrupt ;  in  language  plain, 
And  plain  in  manner ;  decent,  solemn,  chaste, 
And  natural  in  gesture  ;  much  impress'd 
Himself,  as  conscious  of  his  awful  charge, 
And  anxious  mainly  that  the  flock  he  feeds 
May  feel  it  too ;  affectionate  in  look, 
And  tender  in  address,  as  well  becomes 
A  messenger  of  grace  to  guilty  men. 


THE   TIME-PIECE  207 

Behold  the  picture  ! — Is  it  like? — Like  whom  ? 
The  thiiigs  that  mount  the  rostrum  with  a  skip 
And  then  skip  clown  again  ;  pronounce  a  text; 
Cry — hem;   and  reading  what  they  never  wrote 
Just  fifteen  minutes,  huddle  up  their  work, 
And  with  a  well-bred  whisper  close  the  scene ! 

In  juan  or  woman,  but  far  most  in  man, 
And  most  of  all  in  man  that  ministers 
And  serves  the  altar,  in  my  soul  I  loathe 
All  affectation.      'Tis  my  perfect  scorn  ; 
Object  of  my  implacable  disgust. 
What  ! — will  a  man  play  tricks,  will  he  indulge 
A  silly  fond  conceit  of  his  fair  form, 
And  just  proportion,  fashionable  mien, 
And  pretty  face,  in  presence  of  his  God? 
Or  will  he  seek  to  dazzle  me  with  tropes, 
As  with  the  diamond  on  his  lily  hand, 
And  play  his  brilliant  parts  before  my  eyes, 
When  I  am  hungry  for  the  bread  of  life  ? 
He  ni<*:ks  his  Maker,  prostitutes  and  shames 
His  noble  office,  and,  instead  of  truth, 
Displaying  his  own  beauty,  starves  his  flock. 
Therefore  avaunt  all  attitude,  and  stare, 
And  start  theatric,  practis'd  at  the  glass! 
J  seek  divine  simplicity  in  him, 
"Who  handles  things  divine  ;  and  all  besides, 
Though  learn'd  with  labor,  and  though  much  admir'd 
By  curious  eyes  and  judgments  ill  inform'd, 
To  me  is  odious  as  the  nasal  twang 
Heard  at  conventicle,  where  worthy  men, 
Misled  by  custom,  strain  celestial  theme0 
Through  the  press'd  nostril,  spectacle-bestrid. 
Some  decent  in  demeanor  while  they  preach, 
That  task  perforrn'd,  relapse  into  themselves; 
And,  having  spoken  wisely,  at  the  close 
Grow  wanton,  and  give  proof  to  ev'ry  eye, 
"Whoe'er  was  edified,  themselves  were  not! 
Fjrth  comes  the  pocket  mirror. — First  we  stroke 
An  eyebrow  ;   next  compose  a  straggling  lock  ; 
Then  with  an  air  most  gracefully  perform'd 
Fall  back  into  our  seat,  extend  an  arm, 
And  lay  it  at  its  ease  with  gentle  care, 
With  handkerchief  in  hand  depending  low  : 
The  better  hand  more  busy  gives  the  nose 
Its  bergamot,  or  aids  th'  indebted  eye 
With  op'ra  glass,  to  watch  t^e  moving  scene, 
And  recognize  the  slow-retiring  fair. — 
Jsow  this  is  fulsome,  and  offends  me  more 
Than  iu  a  Churchman  slovenly  neglect 


THE.    TASK. 

And  rustic  coarseness  woi.ld.     A  heav'nly  mind 

May  be  indiff'rent  to  her  house  of  clay, 

And  slight  the  hovel  as  beneath  her  care  ; 

But  bow  a  body  so  fantastic,  trim, 

And  quaint,  in  its  deportment  and  attire, 

Can  lodge  a  heav'nly  mind, — demands  a  doubt. 

He,  that  negotiates  between  God  and  mau, 
As  (Joel's  ambassador,  the  grand  concerns 
Of  judgment  and  of  mercy,  should  beware 
Of  lightness  in  his  speech.     'Tis  pitiful 
To  Cv>urt  a  grin,  when  you  should  woo  a  soui, 
To  break  a  jest,  when  pity  would  inspire 
Pathetic  exhortation  ;  and  t'address 
The  skittish  fancy  wLh  facetious  tales, 
When  sent  with  God's  commission  to  the  heart! 
So  did  not  Paul.      Direct  me  to  a  quip 
Or  merry  turn  in  all  he  ever  wrote, 
And  I  consent  you  take  it  for  your  text, 
Your  only  one,  till  sides  and  benches  fail. 
No:  he  was  serious  in  a  serious  cause, 
And  understood  too  well  the  weighty  terms, 
That  he  had  tak'n  in  charge.      He  would  not  stoop 
To  conquer  those  by  jocular  exploits, 
Whom  truth  and  soberness  assail 'd  in  vain. 

O  Popular  Applause!  what  heart  of  man 
Is  proof  against  thy  sweet  seducing  charms? 
The  wisest  and  the  best  feel  urgent  need 
Of  all  their  caution  in  thy  gentlest  gales  ; 
But  swell'd  into  a  gust— who  then,  alas  ! 
With  all  his  canvass  set,  and  inexpert, 
And  therefore  heedless,  can  withstand  thy  pow'r  ? 
Praise  from  the  shrivell'd  lips  of  toothless;  bald 
Decrepitude,  and  in  the  looks  of  lean 
And  craving  Poverty,  and  in  the  bow 
Respectful  of  the  smutch 'd  artificer, 
Is  oft  too  welcome,  and  may  much  disturb 
The  b  as  of  the  purpose.     How  much  more, 
Pour'd  forth  by  beauty  splendid  and  polite, 
In  language  soft  as  Adoration  breathes? 
Ah  spare  your  idol!    think  him  human  still. 
Charms  he  may  have,  but  he  has  frailties  too  ! 
Dote  not  too  much,  nor  spoil  what  ye  admire. 

All  truth  is  from  the  sempiternal  source 
Of  light  divine.       But  Egypt,  Greece,  and  Rome, 
Drew  from  the  stream  below.      More  favor'd  we 
Drink,  when  we  choose  it,  at  the  fountain-head. 
To  them  it  flow'd  much  mingled  anil  drfil'd 
With  hurtful  error,  prejudice,  and  dreams 
Illusive  of  philosophy,  so  call'd 


THE    TIME-PIECE.  20f> 

But  falsely.     Sages  after  sages  strove 
In  vain  to  filter  off  a  crystal  draught 
Pure  from  the  lees,  which  often  more  enhanc'd 
The  thirst  than  slak'd  it,  and  not  seldom  bred 
Intoxication  and  delirium  wild. 
In  vain  they  push'd  inquiry  to  the  birth 
And  spring-time  of  the  world;    ask'd,  Whence  is  ma*/  I 
Why  form'd  at  all?    and  wherefore  as  he  is  ? 
Where  must  he  find  his  Maker?   with  what  rites 
Adore  him?     Will  he  hear,  accept,  and  bless? 
Or  does  lie  sit  regardless  of  his  works  ? 
Has  man  within  him  an  immortal  seed? 
Or  does  the  tomb  take  all  ?    If  he  survive 
His  ashes,  where  ?    and  in  what  weal  or  woe  ? 
Knots  worthy  of  solution,  which  alone 
A  Deity  could  solve.      Their  answers,  vague 
And  all  at  random,  fabulous  and  dark, 
Left  them  as  dark  themselves.     Their  rules  of  life 
Defective  and  unsanction'd,  prov'd  too  weak 
To  bind  the  roving  appetite,  and  lead 
Blind  nature  to  a  God  not  yet  reveaPd. 
'Tis  Revelation  satisfies  all  doubts, 
Explains  all  mysteries,  except  her  own, 
And  so  illuminates  the  path  of  life, 
That  fools  discover  it,  and  stray  no  more. 
Now  tell  me,  dignified  and  sapient  sir, 
JMy  man  of  morals,  nurtur'd  in  the  shades 
Of  Academus — is  this  false  or  true  ? 
Is  Christ  the  abler  teacher,  or  the  schools? 
If  Christ,  then  why  resort  at  ev'ry  turn 
To  Athens  or  to  Rome,  for  wisdom  short 
Of  man's  occasions,  when  in  him  reside 
Grace,  knowledge,  comfort — an  unfathom'd  store  1 
Ho«  oft,  when  Paul  has  serv'd  us  with  a  text, 
Has  Epictetus,  Plato,  Tully,  preach'd  ! 
Men  that,  if  now  alive,  would  sit  content 
And  humble  learners  of  a  Saviour's  worth, 
Preach  it  who  might.     Such  was  their  love  of  truth, 
Their  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  their  candor  too! 

And  thus  it  is. — The  pastor,  either  vain 
By  nature,  or  by  flatt'ry  made  so,  taught 
To  gaze  at  his  own  splendor,  and  t' exalt 
Absurdly,  not  his  office,  but  himself; 
Or  uneniighten'd,  and  too  proud  to  learn  ; 
Or  vicious,  and  not  therefore  apt  to  teach; 
Perverting  often  by  the  stress  of  lewd 
And  loose  example,  whom  he  should  instruct; 
Exposes,  and  hokis  up  to  broad  disgrace, 
Tne  noblet  function,    and  discredits  much 

T2 


210  THE    TASK. 

The  brightest  truths  that  man  has  ever  seen. 

For  ghostly  counsel ;   it'  it  either  fall 

Below  the  exigence,  or  be  not  back'd 

With  show  of  love,  at  least  with  hopeful  proof 

Of  some  sincerity  on  the  giver's  part; 

Or  be  dishonored  in  th'exterior  form 

And  mode  of  its  conveyance  by  such  tricks 

As  move  derision,  or  by  foppish  airs 

And  histrionic  mumm'ry,  that  let  down 

The  pulpit  to  the  level  of  the  stage  ; 

Drops  from  the  lips  a  disregarded  thing. 

The  weak  perhaps  are  mov'd,  but  are  not  taught, 

While  prejudice  in  men  of  stronger  minds 

Takes  deeper  root,  confirm'd  by  what  they  see. 

A  relaxation  of  religion's  hold 

Upon  the  roving  and  untutor'd  heart 

Soon  follows,  an  i,  the  curb  of  conscience  snapp'd, 

The  laity  run  wild. — But  do  they  now? 

Note  their  extravagance,  and  be  convinc'd. 

As  nations,  ignorant  of  God,  contrive 
A  wooden  one  ;  so  we,  no  longer  taught 
By  monitors  that  mother  church  supplies, 
NJW  make  our  own.     Posterity  will  ask 
(If  e'er  posterity  see  verse  of  mine) 
Some  fifty  or  a  hundred  lustrums  hence, 
What  Was  a  monitor  in  George's  days  ? 
My  very  gentle  reader,  yet  unborn, 
Of  whom  I  needs  must  augur  better  things, 
Since  Heav'n  would  sure  grow  weary  of  a  world 
Productive  only  of  a  race  like  ours, 
A  monitor  is  wood — plank  shaven  thin. 
We  wear  it  at  our  backs.     There,  closely  brac'd 
And  neatly  fitted,  it  compresses  hard 
The  prominent  and  most  unsightly  bones, 
And  binds  the  shoulders  flat.     We  prove  its  use 
Sov' reign  and  most  effectual  to  secure 
A  form,  not  now  gymnastic  as  of  yore, 
From  rickets  and  distortion,  else  our  lot. 
But  thus  admonish'd,  we  can  walk  erect — 
One  proof  at  least  of  manhood  !  while  the  friend 
Sticks  close,  a  Mentor  worthy  of  his  charge. 
Our  habits,  costlier  than  Lncullus  wore, 
And  by  caprice  as  multiplied  as  his, 
Just  please  us  while  the  fashion  is  at  full, 
But  change  with  ev'ry  moon.     The  sycophant, 
Who  waits  to  dress  us,  arbitrates  their  date; 
Surveys  his  fair  reversion  with  keen  eye; 
Finds  one  ill  made,  another  obsolete, 
This  fits  not  nicely,  that  is  ill  c«mceiv'd ; 


THE    TIME-PIECE.  211 

And,  making  prize  of  all  that  he  condemns, 

With  our  expenditure  defrays  his  own. 

Variety's  the  very  spice  of  life, 

That  gives  it  all  its  Haver.     We  have  run 

Through  ev'ry  change,  that  Fancy,  at  the  loom 

Exhausted,  has  had  genius  to  supply  ; 

And,  studious  of  mutation  still,  discard 

A  real  elegance,  a  little  us'd, 

For  monstrous  novelty,  and  strange  disguise. 

\\  e  sacrifice  to  dress,  till  household  joys 

And  comforts  ce.-se.   Dress  drains  our  cellar  dry, 

And  keeps  our  larder  lean  ;   puts  out  our  fires  ; 

And  introduces  hunger,  frost,  and  woe, 

Where  peace  and  hospitality  might  reign. 

Wlnt  man  that  lives,  and  that  knows  how  to  live, 

Would  fail  t'exhibit  at  the  public  shows 

A  form  as  splendid  as  the  proudest  there, 

Though  appetite  raise  outcries  at  the  cost  ? 

A  man  o'  th'  town  dines  late,  but  soon  enough, 

With  reasonable  forecast  and  dispatch, 

T'ensure  a  side-box  station  at  half-price. 

You  think  perhaps,  so  delicate  his  dress, 

His  daily  fare  as  delicate.     Alas! 

He  picks  clean  teeth,  and,  busy  as  he  seems 

With  an  old  tavern  quill,  is  hungry  yet ! 

The  rout  is  Folly's  circle,  which  she  draws 

With  magic  wand.     So  potent  is  the  spell, 

That  none,  decoy'd  into  that  fatal  ring, 

Unless  by  Heav'n's  peculiar  grace,  escape. 

There  we  grow  early  gray,  but  never  wise  ; 

There  form  connexions,  but  acquire  no  friend  ; 

Solicit  pleasure  hopeless  of  success  ; 

Waste  youth  in  occupations  only  fit 

For  second  childhood,  and  devote  old  age 

To  sports,  which  only  childhood  could  excuse. 

There  they  are  happiest,  who  dissemble  test 

Their  weariness  ;  and  they  the  most  polite, 

Who  squander  time  and  treasure  with  a  smile, 

Though  at  their  own  destruction.     She  that  asks 

Her  dear  five  hundred  friends,  contemns  them  all, 

And  hates  their  coming.     They  (what  can  they  less  ?) 

Make  just  reprisals  ;  and,  with  cringe  and  shrug, 

And  bow  obsequious,  hide  their  hate  of  her. 

All  catch  the  frenzy,  downward  from  her  grace, 

Whose  rlambeaux  flash  against  the  morning  skies. 

And  gild  our  chamber  ceilings  as  they  pat>s, 

To  her,  who,  frugal  only  that  her  thrift 

May  feed  excesses  she  can  ill  afford, 

Is  hacknev'd  home  unlackey'd ;  who,  in  hasU 


CJ-2  THE    TASK. 

Alighting,  turns  the  key  in  her  own  door, 

And,  at  the  watchman's  lantern  borr'wing  light, 

Finds  a  cold  bed  her  only  comfort  left. 

Wives  beg-gar  husband  ,  hvisbands  starve  their  wives, 

On  Fortune's  velvet  altar  ottering  up 

Their  last  poor  pittance — Fortune,  most  severe 

Of  goddesses  yet  known,  and  costlier  far 

Than  all,  that  held  their  routs  in  Juno's  heav'n. — 

So  fare  we  in  this  prison-house  the  World  ; 

And  'tis  a  fearful  spectacle  to  see 

So  many  maniacs  dancing  in  their  chains. 

They  gaze  upon  the  links,  that  hold  them  fast, 

With  eyes  of  anguish,  execrate  their  lot. 

Then  shake  them  in  despair,  and  dance  again  ! 

Now  basket  up  the  family  of  plagues, 
That  waste  our  vitals  ;  peculation,  sale 
Ot  honor,  perjury,  corruption,  frauds 
By  forgery,  by  subterfuge  of  law, 
Hy  tricks  and  lies  as  num'rous  and  as  keen 
As  the  necessities  their  authors  feel; 
Then  cast  them,  closely  bundled,  ev'ry  brat 
At  the  right  door.     Profusion  is  the  sire. 
Profusion  unrestrain'd,  with  all  that's  base 
In  character,  has  litter 'd  all  the  land, 
And  bred,  within  the  mem'ry  of  no  few, 
A  priesthood,  such  as  Baal's  was  of  old, 
A  people,  such  as  never  was  till  now. 
It  is  a  hungry  vice  : — it  eats  up  all 
That  gives  society  its  beauty,  strength, 
Convenience,  and  security,  and  use: 
Makes  men  mere  vermin,  worthy  to  be  trapp'd 
And  gibbeted,  as  fast  as  catchpole  claws 
Can  seize  the  slipp'ry  prey :  unties  the  knot 
Of  union,  arid  converts  the  sacred  band, 
That  holds  mankind  together,  to  a  scourge. 
Profusion,  deluging  a  state  with  lusts 
Of  grossest  nature  and  of  worst  effects, 
Prepares  it  for  its  ruin:  hardens,  blinds, 
And  warps,  the  consciences  of  public  men, 
Till  they  can  laugh  at  Virtue  ;  mock  the  fools, 
That  trust  them  ;  and  in  th'end  disclose  a  face, 
That  would  have  shock'd  Credulity  herself, 
Unmask'd,  vouchsafing  this  their  sole  excuse — 
Since  all  alike  are  selfish,  why  not  chey  ? 
This  does  Profusion,  and  th'accursed  cause 
Of. such  deep  mischief  has  itself  a  cause. 

In  colleges  and  halls  in  ancient  days, 
When  learning,  virtue,  piety,  and  truth, 
Were  precious,  and  inculcated  with  care, 


THE    TIME-PIECE.  213 

There  dwelt  a  sage  call'd  Discipline.       His  head, 

Not  yet  by  time  completely  silver'd  o'er, 

Bespoke  him  past  the  bounds  of  freakish  youth, 

But  strong  for  service  still,  and  unimpair'd. 

His  eye  was  meek  and  gentle,  and  a  smile 

Play'd  on  his  lips  ;  and  in  his  speech  was  heard 

Paternal  sweetness,  dignity,  and  love. 

The  occupation  dearest  to  his  he;irt 

Was  to  encourage  goodness.       He    would  stroke 

The  head  of  modest  and  ingenuous  worth, 

That  blush'd  at  its  own  praise  ;  and  press  the  youth 

Close  to  his  side,  that  pleas'd  him.       Learning  grew 

Beneath  his  care  a  thriving  vig'rous  plant; 

The  mind  was  well  inform'd,  the  passions  held 

Subordinate,  and  diligence  was  choice. 

If  e'er  it  chanc'd,  as  sometimes  chance  it  must, 

That  one  among  so  many  overleap'd 

The  limits  of  control,  his  gentle  eye 

Grew  stern,  and  darted  a  severe  rebuk 

His  frown  was  full  of  terror,  and  his  voice 

Shook  the  delinquent  with  such  fits  of  awe, 

As  left  him  not,  till  penitence  had  won 

Lost  favor  back  again,  and  clos'd  the  breach. 

But  Discipline,  a  faithful  servant  long, 

Declin'd  at  length  into  the  vale  of  years: 

A  palsy  struck  his  arm  ;  his  sparkling  eye 

Was  quench'd  in  rheums  of  age  ;  his  voice,  unstrung, 

Grew  tremulous,  and  drew  derision  more 

Than  rev'rence  in  perverse,  rebellious  youth. 

So  colleges  and  halls  neglected  much 

Their  gt  od  old  friend;  and  Discipline  at  length, 

O'erlook'd  and  unemployed,  fell  sick  and  died. 

Then  Study  languished,  Emulation  slept, 

And  Virtue  fled.     The  schools  became  a  scene 

Of  solemn  farce,  where  Ignorance  in  stilts, 

His  cap  well  lin'd  with  logic  not  his  own, 

With  parrot  tongue  perform 'd  the  scholar's  part, 

Proceeding  soon  a  graduated  dunce. 

Then  compromise  had  place,  and  scrutiny 

Became  stone  blind  ;  precedence  went  in  truck, 

And  he  was  competent  wh  ise  purse  was  so. 

A  dissolution  of  all  bond*  ensued  ; 

The  cut  bs  invented  i'o:  the  mulish  mouth 

Of  headstrong  youth  were  broken  ;    bars  and  bolts 

Grew  rusty  by  disuse;  and  massy  gates 

Forgot  their  office,  op'niug  with  a  touch  ; 

Till  gowns  at  length  are  found  mere  masquerade, 

The  tassel'd  cap  and  the  spruce  band  a  jest, 

A  mock'ry  of  the  world  !    What  need  of  these 


214  THE    TASK. 

For  gamesters,  jockeys,  brothellers  impure, 
Spendthrifts,  and  booted  sportsmen,  oft'ner  seen 
\\  ith  belted  waist  and  pointers  at  their  heels, 
Than  in  the  bounds  of  duty  ?     What  was  learn'd, 
If  aught  was  learn'd  in  childhood,  is  forgot; 
And  such  expense,  as  pinches  parents  blue, 
And  mortifies  the  lib'ral  hand  of  love, 
Is  squander'd  in  pursuit  of  idle  sports 
And  vicious  pleasures ;    buys  the  boy  a  name, 
That  sits  a  stigma-on  his  father's  house, 
And  cleaves  tlnough  lite  inseparably  close 
To  him  that  wears  it.       What  can  after-games 
Of  riper  joys,  and  commerce  with  the  world, 
The  lewd  vain  world,  that  must  receive  him  soon, 
Add  to  such  erudition,  thus  acquir'd, 
Where  science  and  where  virtue  are  profess'd  1 
They  may  confirm  his  habits,  rivet  fast 
His  folly,  but  to  spoil  him  is  a  task, 
That  bids  defiance  to  th'united  pow'rs 
Of  fashion,  dissipation,  taverns,  stews. 
Now  blame  we  most  the  nurslings  or  the  nurse? 
The  children  crook'd,  and  twisted,  and  deform'd, 
Through  want  of  care  ;  or  her,  whose  winking  eye 
And  slumb'ring  oscitancy  mars  the  brood  ? 
The  nurse  no  doubt.       Regardless  of  her  charge, 
She  n^eds  herself  correction  ;   needs  to  learn, 
That  it  is  dang'rous  sporting  with  the  world, 
With  things  so  sacred  as  a  nation's  trust, 
The  nurture  of  her  youth,  her  dearest  pledge. 
All  are  not  such.       I  had  a  brother  ouce — 
Peace  to  the  mem'ry  of  a  man  of  worth, 
A  man  of  letters,  and  of  manners  too  ! 
Of  manners  sweet  as  Virtue  always  wears, 
When  gay  Good-nature  dresses  her  in  smiles. 
He  grac'd  a  college,*  in  which  order  yet 
Was  sacred ;    and  was  honor'd,  lov'd,  and  wept, 
By  more  than  one,  themselves  conspicuous  there. 
Some  minds  are  temper'd  happily,  and  mix'd 
With  such  ingredients  of  good  sense,  and  taste 
Of  what  is  excellent  in  man,  they  thirst 
Wiih  such  a  zeal  to  be  what  they  approve, 
That  IK*  restraints  can  circumscribe  them  more 
Than  they  themselves  by  choice,  for  wisdoi*      *ake. 
Nor  can  example  hurt  them  :  what  they  s» 
Of  vice  in  others  but  enhancing  more 
The  charms  of  virtue  in  their  just  esteem 
If  such  escape  contagion,  and  emerge 

•  Bcne'tColl.  Cambridge 


THE   TT PIECE.  215 

Pure  from  so  foul  a  pool  to  shine  abroad, 
And  give  the  world  their  talents  and  themselves, 
Small  thanks  to  those  whose  negligence  or  sloth 
Expos'd  their  inexperience  to  the  snare, 
And  left  them  to  an  undirected  choice. 

See  then  the  quiver  bn  ken  and  decay'd, 
In  which  are  kept  our  arrows  J     Rusting  there 
In  wild  disorder,  and  unfit  for  use, 
What  wonder  if,  discharg'd  into  the  world, 
They  shame  their  shooters  with  a  random  flight, 
Their  points  obtuse,  and  feathers  drunk  with  wine! 
Well  may  the  church  wage  unsuccessful  war 
With  such  artill'ry  arm'd.       Vice  parries  wide 
Th'undreade  1  volley  with  a  sword  of  straw, 
And  stands  an  impudent  and  feat  less  maik. 

Have  we  not  track'd  the  felon  home,  and  found 
His  birtli -place  and  his  dam  ?   The  country  mourns, 
Mourns  because  ev'ry  plague,  that  can  infest 
Society,  and  that  saps  and  worms  the  base 
Of  th'edifice,  that  Policy  has  rais'd, 
Swarms  in  all  quarters:  meets  the  eye,  the  ear, 
And  suffocates  the  breath  at  ev'ry  turn. 
Profusion  breeds  them  ;  and  the  cause  itself 
Of  that  calamitous  mischief  h,.s  been  found: 
Found  too  where  most  offensive,  in  the  skirts 
Of  the  rob'd  pedagogue  !     Else  let  th'arraign'd 
Stand  up  unconscious,  and  refute  the  charge. 
So  when  the  Jewish  leader  stretch'd  his  arm, 
And  wav'd  his  rod  divine,  a  race  obscene, 
Sptwn'd  in  the  muddy  beds  of  Nile,  came  forth, 
Polluting  Egypt :   gardens,  fields,  and  plains, 
Were  cover' d"  with  the  pest;  the  streets  were  fill'dj 
The  croaking  nuisance  lurk'd  in  every  nook ; 
Nor  palaces,  nor  even  chambers,  scap'd  ; 
And  the  land  stank — so  num'rous  was  the  fry. 


THE  TASK. 

BOOK  III. 


THE  GARDEN, 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  THIRD  BOOK. 

Self-recollection  and  reproof. — Address  to  domestic  happiness.— Some  ac- 
count of  myself. — The  vanity  of  many  of  their  pursuits  who  are  reputed 
wise. — Justification  of  my'.censures. — Divine  illumination  necessarj  to  the 
most  expert  philosopher. — The  question,  What  is  truth  ?  answer,  d  by 
other  questions. — Domestic  happiness  addressed  again. — Feu  lovers  of 
the  country. — My  taine  hare. — Occupations  of  a  retired  gentleman  in 
his  garden. — Pruning  — Framing.-  -Green-house — Sowing  of  flower-seeds. 
— The  country  preferable  to  the  town  even  in  winter.—  Reasons  why  ii  is 
deserted  at  that  season. — Ruinous  effects  of  gaming,  and  of  expensive 
improvement. — Book  concludes  with  an  apostrophe  to  the  metropolis. 

As  one,  who  lung  in  thickets  and  in  brakes 
Entangled,  winds  now  this  way  and  now  that 
His  devious  course  uncertain,  seeking  home ; 
Or,  having  long  in  miry  ways  been  foil'd 
And  tore  discomfited,  from  slough  to  slough 
Plunging,  and  half  despairing  of  escape; 
Jf  chance  at  length  he  find  a  greensward  smooth 
And  favhful  to  the  foot,  his  spirits  rise, 
He  cherubs  brisk  his  ear-erecting  steed, 
And  winds  his  way  with  pleasure  and  with  ease; 
So  I,  designing  other  themes,  and  call'd 
T'adorn  the  Sofa  with  eulogium  due, 
To  tell  its  slumbers,  ana  to  paint  us  dreams, 
Have  rambled  wide:  in  country,  city,  seat 
Of  academic  fame  (howe'er  deserv'd;, 
Long  held,  and  scarcely  disengag'd  at  last. 
But  now  with  pleasant  pace  a  cleanlier  road 
1  mean  to  tread:    1  feel  myself  at  large, 
Courageous,  and  re  fresh 'd  for  future  toil, 
If  toil  await  me,  or  if  dangers  new. 

Since  pulpits  fail,  and  sounding-boards  reflect 
Most  part  an  empty,  ineffectual  sound. 


C 


THE    GAHOfcN.  217 

What  chance  that  I,  to  fame  so  Jitde  known, 

Nor  conversant  with  men  or  manners  much, 

Should  speak  to  purpose,  or  with  better  hope 

Crack  the  satiric  thong  ?   "I  were  wiser  far 

1'or  me,  enamour'd  of  seques'.er'd  scenes, 

And  charm'd  with  rural  beauty,  to  repose, 

Where  chanoe  may  throw  me,  beneath  elm  or  vine, 

My  languid  limbs,  when  summer  sears  the  plains, 

Or,  when  n  ugh  winter  rages,  on  the  soft 

And  shelter  d  sofa,  while  the  nitrous  air 

Feeds  a  blue  flame,  and  i»akes  a  cheerful  hearth ; 

There,  undisturbed  by  Folly,  and  appris'd 

How  great  the  danger  of  disturbing  her, 

To  muse  in  silence,  or,  at  least,  confine 

Remarks,  that  gall  so  many,  to  the  few 

My  partners  in  retreat.     Disgust  conceal'd 

Is  oftimes  proof  of  wisdom,  when  the  fault 

Is  obstinate,  and  cure  beyond  our  reach. 

Domestic  Happiness,  thou  only  bliss 
Of  Paradise,  that  hast  survived  the  fall ! 
Though  few  now  taste  thee  unimpair'd  and  pure 
Or  tasting,  long  enjoy  thee  !   too  inrirm, 
Or  too  incautious,  to  preserve  thy  sweets 
Unmix' d  with  drops  of  bitter,  which  neglect, 
Or  temper,  sheds  into  thy  crystal  c  up  ; 
Thou  art  the  nurse  of  Virtue,  in  thine  arms 
She  smiles,  appearing,  as  in  truth  she  is, 
Heav'n-born,  and  distin'd  to  the  skies  again. 
Thou  art  not  known  where  Pleasure  is  ador'd, 
That  reeling  goddess  with  the  zoneless  waist 
And  watid  dug  eyes,  still  leaning  on  the  arm 
Of  Novelty,  her  fickle,  trail  support  ; 
For  thou  art  meek  and  constant,  hating  change, 
And  finding  in  the  calm  of  truth- tried  love 
Joys  that  her  stormy  raptures  never  yield. 
Forsaking  thee,  what  shipwreck  have  we  made 
Of  honor,  dignity,  and  fair  renown  ! 
Till  prostitution  elbows  us  aside 
En  all  our  crowded  streets;  and  senates  seem 
Conven'd  for  purposes  of  empire  less,  , 
Than  to  release  th'  adultress  from  her  bond. 
Th' adultress  !  what  a  theme  for  angry  verse! 
What  provocation  to  th' indignant  heart. 
That  teels  for  injur'd  love  !   but  I  disdain 
The  nauseous  task  to  paint  her  as  she  is, 
Cruel,  abandon'd,  glorying  in  her  shame  ! 
No:   let  her  pass,  and  charioted  al 
In  guilty  splendor,  shake  the  public 
The  frequency  of  crimes  has  \vu.sht-d  Uieui  white, 

TJ 


218  THE    TASK. 

And  verse  cf  mine  shall  never  brand  the  wretch, 

Whom  matron's  now  of  character  unsmirched, 

And  chaste  themselves,  are  not  ashamed  to  own. 

Virtue  and  vice  had  bound'ries  in  old  time, 

Not  to  be  passed  :     and  she,  that  had  renounc'd 

Her  sex's  honor,  was  renounc'd  herself 

By  all  that  priz'd  it;  not  for  prud'ry's  sake, 

But  dignity's,  resentful  of  the  wrong. 

'T  was  hard  perhaps  on  here  and  there  a  waif, 

Desirous  to  return,  and  not  receiv'd  : 

But  'twas  a  wholesome  rigor  in  the  main, 

And  taught  th'  unblemished  to  preserve  with  care 

That  purity,  whose  loss  was  loss  of  all. 

Men  too  were  nice  in  honor  iii  those  days, 

And  jndg'd  offenders  well.     Then  he  that  sharped, 

And  pocketed  a  prize  by  fraud  obtain'd, 

Was"mark'd  and  shunn'd  as  odious.      He  that  sold 

His  country,  or  was  slack  when  she  requir'd 

His  ev'ry  nerve  in  action  and  at  stretch, 

Paid  with  the  blood  that  he  had  basely  spared 

The  price  of  his  default.      But  now — yes,  now, 

We  are  become  so  candid  and  so  fair, 

So  lib'ral  in  construction,  and  so  rich 

In  Christian  charity,  (good-natured  age!) 

That  they  are  safe,  sinners  of  either  sex, 

Transgress  what  laws  they  may.    Well  dress' d,  well-bred, 

Well  equipag'd,  is  ticket  good  enough 

To  pass  us  readily  through  ev'ry  door. 

Hypocrisy,  detest  her  as  we  may, 

(And  no  man's  hatred  ever  wrong'd  her  yet), 

May  claim  this  merit  still — that  she  admits 

The  worth  of  what  she  mimics  with  such  care, 

And  thus  gives  virtue  indirect  applau>e  ; 

But  she  has  burnt  her  mask,  not  needed  here, 

Where  vice  has  such  allowance,  that  her  shifts 

And  specious  semblances  have  lost  their  use. 

I  was  a  stricken  deer,  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since.      With  many  an  arrow  deep  infix'd 
My  panting  side  was  charg'd,  when  1  withdrew 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 
I  There  was  I  found  by  one  who  had  himself 
Been  hurt  by  th'  archers.     In  his  side  he  bore, 
And  in  his  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scar». 
With  gentle  foice  soliciting  the  darts, 
He  drew  them  forth,  and  heal'd,  and  bade  me  lire. 
Since  then,  with  few  associates,  in  remote 
And  silent  woods  I  wander,  far  from  ihose 
My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene; 
"With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  more. 
Here  much  1  ruminate,  as  much  I  may, 


THE    GARDEN.  219 

With  other  views  of  men  and  manners  now 

.Than  once,  and  others  of  a  life  to  come. 

I  see  that  all  are  wand'rers,  gone  astray 
__Each  in  his  own  delusions  ;    they  are  lost 

In  chase  of  fancied  happiness,  still  woo'd 

And  never  won.      Uream  after  dream  ensues; 

And  still  they  dream  that  they  shall  still  succeed, 

And  still  are  disappointed.     Kings  the  world 

With  the  vain  :-tir.      I  sum  up  half  mankind, 

And  add  two-thirds  of  the  remaining  half, 

And  find  the  total  of  their  hopes  and  fears 

Dreams,  empty  dreams.     The  million  Hit  as  gay 

As  if  created  only  like  the  Hy, 

That  spreads  his  motley  wings  in  th'  eye  of  noon, 

To  sport  th.  ir  season,  and  he  seen  no  more. 

The  re*t  are  sober  dreamers,  grave  and  wise, 

And  pregnant  with  discov'ries  new  and  rare. 

Some  write  a  narrative  of  wars,  and  feats 

Of  heroes  little  known  ;   and  call  the  rant 

A  history:   describe  the  man,  of  whom 

His  own  coevals  took  but  little  note, 

And  paint  his  person,  character,  and  views, 

As  they  had  known  him  from  his  mother's  womb. 

They  disentangle  from  the  puzzled  skein, 

In  which  obscurity  has  wrapped  them  up, 

The  threads  of  politic  and  shrewd  design, 
That  ran  through  all  "his  purposes,  and  charge 

His  mind  with  meanings  that  he  never  had, 

Or,  h.-iving,  kept  conceal'd.     Some  drill  and  bore 

The  solid  earth,  and  fro-n  the  strata  there 

Extract  a  regu-ter,  by  which  we  learn, 

That  he  who  made  it,  and  reveal'd  its  date 

To  Moses,  was  mistaken  in  its  age. 

Some,  more  acute,  and  more  industrious  still, 

Contrive  creation  ;   travel  Nature  up 

To  the  sharp  peak  of  her  sublnnest  height, 

And  tell  us  whence  the  stars  ,   why  some  are  fix'd, 

And  planetary  some  ;   what  gave  them  first 

Rotation,  from  what  fountain  tiow'd  their  light. 

Great  contest  follows,  and  much  learned  dust 

Involves  the  combatants  ;  each  claiming  truth, 

And  truth  disclaiming  both.     And  thus  they  spend 

The  littL  wick  of  life's  poor  shallow  lamp 

In  playing  tricks  with  Nature,  giving  laws 

To  distant  worlds,  and  trifling  in  their  own. 

Is't  not  a  pity  now  that  tickling  rheums 

Should  ever  tease  the  lungs,  and  blear  the  sight 

Of  oracles  like  these?   Great  pity  too, 

That  having  wielded  th'  elements,  and  built 


220  THE    TASK. 

A  thousand  systems,  each  in  his  own  way. 
They  should  go  out  in  fume,  and  be  forgot  ? 
All  !   what  is  life  thus  spent  1  and  what  are  they 
But  frantic  who  thus  spend  it  1  all  for  sn.oke — • 
Eternity  for  bubbles  proves  at  last 
A  senseless  bargain.     When  I  see  such  games 
Play'cl  by  the  creatures  of  a  Pow'r,  who  swears 
That  he  will  judge  the  earth,  and  call  tne  fool 
To  a  sharp  reck'ning,  that  has  lived  in  vain  ; 
And  when  I  weigh  this  seeming  wisdom  well, 
And  prove  it  in  th'  infallible  result 
So  hollow  and  so  false — I  feel  my  heart 
Dissolve  in  pity,  and  account  the  learn'd, 
If  tins  be  learning,  most  of  all  deceiv'd. 
Great  crimes  alarm  the  conscience,  but  it  sleeps, 
While  thoughtful  man  is  plausibly  amus'd. 
Defend  me,  therefore,  common  sense,  say  I, 
From  reveries  so  airy,  from  the  toil 
Of  dropping  buckets  into  empty  wells, 
And  giowing  old  in  drawing  nothing  up! 

'Twere  well,  says  one  sage  erudite,  profound, 
Terribly  arch'd,  and  aquiline  his  nose, 
And  overbuilt  with  most  impending  brows, 
'Twere  well,  could  you  permit  the  world  to  live 
As  the  world  pleases:  what's  the  world  to  you? 
Much.     1  was  born  of  woman,  and  drew  milk 
As  sweet  as  chanty,  from  human  breasts. 
I  think,  articulate,  1  laugh  and  weep, 
And  exercise  all  functions  of  a  man. 
How  then  should  1  and  any  man  that  lives 
lie  strangers  to  each  oiher  ?   Pierce  my  vein, 
Take  of  the  crimson  stream  meand'ririg  there, 
And  catechise  it  well ;  apply  thy  glass, 
Search  it,  and  prove  now  if  it  be  not  blood 
Congenial  with  thine  owrr:  and,  if  it  be, 
What  edge  of  subtlety  canst  thou  suppose 
Keen  enough,  wise  and  skilful  as  thou  art, 
To  cut  the  link  of  brotherhood,  by  which 
One  common  Maker  bound  me  to  the  kind? 
True ;    1  am  no  proficient,  1  confess, 
In  arts  like  yours.     I  cannot  call  the  swift 
And  perilous  light'nings  from  the  angry  clouds, 
And  bid  them  hide  themselves  in  earth  beneath  ; 
I  cannot  analyse  the  air,  nor  catch 
The  parallax  of  yonder  lum'nous  point, 
That  seems  half-quench'd  in  the  immense  abyaa: 
Such  powers  1  boast  not — neither  can  I  rest 
A  silent  witness  of  the  headlong  rage, 
Or  heedless  folly,  by  which  thousands  die. 


THE    GARDEN.  ?.'2l 

Bono  of  my  bone,  and  kindred  souls  to  mine. 

God  nevi-r  meant  th.it  man  should  scale  the  heav'ns 
By  strides  of  human  wisdom,  in  lus  works, 
Though  wondrous:  he  commands  us  in  his  word 
To  seek  him  rather  where  his  mercy  shines. 
The  mind,  indeed,  pnlighten'd  from  above, 
Views  him  in  all  ;  ascribes  to  the  grand  cause 
The  grand  effect  ;   acknowledges  with  joy 
1 1  is  manner,  and  with  rapture  tastes  his  style, 
hut  never  yet  did  philosophic  tube, 
That  brings  the  planets  home  into  the  eye 
Of  Observation,  and  discovers,  else 
Not  visible,  his  family  of  worlds, 
Discover  Him  that  rules  them  ;  such  a  veil 
Hangs  over  mortal  eyes,  blind  from  the  birth, 
And  dark  in  tilings  divine.     Full  often,  too, 
Our  wayward  intellect,  the  more  we  learn 
Of  nature,  overlooks  her  author  more  ; 
From  instrumental  causes  proud  to  draw 
Conclusions  retrogade,  and  mad  mistake.    - 
But  if  his  Word  once  teach  us,  shoot  a  ray 
Through  all  the  heart's  dark  chambers,  and  reveal 
Truths  undiscern'd  but  by  that  holy  light, 
Then  all  is  plain.     Philosophy,  baptised 
In  the  pure  fountain  of  eternal  love, 
Has  eyes  indeed  ;  and  viewing  all  she  sees 
As  meant  10  indicate  a  God  to  man, 
Gives  him  his  praise,  and  forfeits  not  her  own. 
Learning  has  borne  such  fruit  in  other  days 
On  all  her  branches:  piety  has  found 
Friends  in  the  friends  of  science,  and  true  pray'r 
Has  tiow'd  from  lips  wet  with  Castalian  dews. 
Such  was  thy  wisdom,  Newton,  child-like  sage  1 
Sagacious  reader  of  the  works  of  God, 
And  in  his  word  sagacious.     Such  too  thine, 
Milton,  whose  genius  had  angelic  wings, 
And  fed  on  manna!   And  such  thine,  in  whom 
Our  British  Themis  gloried  with  just  cause, 
Immortal  Hale;  for  deep  discernment  prais'd, 
And  sound  integrity,  not  more  than  fam'd 
For  sanctity  of  manners  undenTd. 

All  flesh  is  grass,  and  all  its  glory  fades 
Like  the  fair  How'r  dishevell'd  in  the  wind; 
Riches  have  wings,  and  giandeur  is  a  dream. 
The  man  we  celebrate  must  find  a  tomb, 
And  we  that  worship  him  ignoble  graves.^ 
Nothing  is  proof  against  the  gen'ral  curse 
Of  vanity,  that  seizes  aH  below. 
The  only  amaranthine  How'r  on  earth 

u  2 


222  THE    TASK. 

Is  v;rtue  ;  th'  only  lasting  treasure,  truth. 

But  what  is  truth  1   'Twas  Pilate's  question  put 

To  truth  itself,  that  deign'd  him  no  reply. 

And  wherefore  ?   will  not  God  impart  Ins  light 

To  them  that  ask  it?— Freely — 'tis  his  joy, 

His  glory,  and  his  nature,  to  impart. 

But  to  the  proud,  uncandid,  insincere, 

Or  negligent  inquirer,  not  a  spark. 

What's  that,  which  brings  contempt  upon  a  hoolt, 

And  him  who  writes  it,  though  the  style  be  neat, 

The  method  clear,  and  argument  ex«ct? 

Thai  makes  a  minister  in  holy  things 

The  joy  of  many,  and  the  di  ead  of  more, 

His  name  a  theme  for  praise  and  for  reproach?— 

That,  while  it  gives  us  worth  in  God's  account, 

Depreciates  and  undoes  us  in  our  own  ? 

"What  pearl  is  it,  that  ricli  men  cannot  buy, 

That  learning  is  too  proud  to  gather  up  ; 

But  which  the  poor,  and  the  despis'd  of  all, 

Seek  and  obtain,  arid  often  find  unsought  ? 

Tell  me— and  1  will  tell  thee  what  is  truth. 

O  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace, 
Domestic  life  in  rural  pleasure  pass'd ! 
Few  know  thy  value,  and  few  taste  thy  sweets; 
Though  many  boast  thy  favors,  and  atfect 
To  understand  and  choose  thee  for  their  own. 
But  foolish  man  forgoes  his  proper  bliss, 
E'en  as  his  first  progenitor,  and  quits, 
Though  plac'd  in  Paradise  (for  earth  has  still 
Some  traces  of  her  youthful  beauty  iet't), 
Substantial  happiness  for  transient  joy. 
Scenes  form' d  for  contemplation,  and    o  nurse 
The  growing  seeds  of  wisdom  ;   that  suggest, 
By  ev'ry  pleasing  image  they  present, 
Reflections  such  as  meliorate  the  heart, 
Compose  the  passions,  and  exalt  the  mind; 
Scenes  such  as  these  'tis  his  supreme  delight 
To  fill  with  riot  and  defile  with  blood. 
Should  some  contagion,  kind  to  the  poor  brutes 
We  persecute,  annihilate  the  tribes, 
That  draw  the  sportsman  over  hill  and  dale 
Fearless,  and  rapt  away  from  all  his  cares  ; 
Should  never  game-fowl  hatch  her  eggs  again, 
Not  baited  hook  deceive  the  fish's  eye  ; 
Could  pageantry  and  dance,  and  feast  and  song, 
Be  quell'd  in  all  our  summer-months'  retreats; 
How  many  self-deluded  nymphs  a«d  swains, 
Who  dream  they  have  »  taste  for  fields  and  grove*? 


GARDEN.  223 

Would  find  them  hideous  nurs'ries  Ok  the  spleen, 

And  crowd  the  roads,  impatient  for  the  townl 

Tney  love  the  country,  and  none  else,  who  seek 

For  their  own  sake  its  silence,  and  its  shade. 

Delights  which  who  would  leave,  that  has  a  heart 

Susceptible  of  pity,  or  a  mind 

Cultur'd  and  capable  of  sober  thought, 

For  all  the  savage  din  of  the  swift  pack, 

And  clamors  of  the  Held  I — Detested  sport, 

That  owes  its  pleasure  to  another's  pain  ; 

That,  feeds  upon  the  sobs  and  dying  shrieks 

Of  harmless  nature,  dumb,  but  yet  endued 

With  eloquence,  that  agonies  inspire, 

Of  silent  tears  and  heart-distending  sighs  ? 

Vain  tears,  alas,  and  sighs  that  never  iind 

A  corresponding  tone  in  jovi;  1  souls  ! 

Well — one  at  least  is  safe.     One  shelter'd  hare 

Has  never  heard  the  sanguinary  yell 

Of  cruel  man,  exulting  in  her  woes. 

Innocent  partner  of  my  peaceful  home, 

Whom  ten  long  years'  experience  of  my  care 

Has  made  at  last  familiar  ;  she  has  lost 

Much  of  her  vigilant  instinctive  dread, 

Not  needful  here,  beneath  a  roof  like  mine. 

Yes — thou  mayst  eit  thy  bread,  and  lick  the  hand 

That  feeds  thee  ;  thou  mayst  frolic  on  tlie^floor 

At  ev'ning,  and  at  night  retire  secure 

To  thy  straw  couch,  and  slumber  unalarm'u ; 

For  1  have  gain'd  thy  confidence,  have  plt'dg'd 

All  that  is  human  in  me,  to  protect 

Thine  unsuspecting  gratitude  and  love. 

If  I  survive  thee,  I  will  dig  thy  grave ; 

And,  when  I  place  thee  in  it,  sighing  say, 

I  knew  at  least  one  hare  that  had  a  friend.* 

How  various  his  employments,  whom  the  world 
Calls  idle  ,-  and  who  justly  in  return 
Estt-.ems  that  busy  world  an  idler  too  ! 
Friends,  books  a  garden,  and  perhaps  his  p<  ;i, 
Delightful  industry  enjoy'd  at  home, 
And  Nature  in  her  cultivated  tiim 
Dress'd  to  his  taste,  inviting  him  abroad — 
Can  he  want  occupation,  who  has  these  ? 
"Will  he  be  idle,  who  has  much  t'  enjoy  ? 
Me  therefore  studious  of  laborious  ease. 
Not  slothful,  happy  to  deceive  the  u     e, 
Not  waste  it,  and  aware  that  hmnai:  ii it- 
Is  but  a  loan  to  be  repaid  with  use, 

thi  note  at  the  end  of  this  voluroe. 


224  THE    TASK. 

When  He  shall  cill  his  debtors  to  account, 

From  whom  are  all  our  blessings,  business  finds 

E'en  here:  while  sedulous.  I   seek  t' improve, 

At  least  neglect  not,  or  leave  unemploy'd, 

The  mind  he  gave  me  ;  driving  it,  though  slack 

Too  oft,  and  much  impeded  in  its  work 

By  causes  not  to  be  divulg'd  in  vain, 

To  its  just  point — the  service  of  mankind. 

He,  that  attends  to  his  interior  self, 

That  has  a  heart,  and  keeps  it ;  has  a  mind 

That  hungers,  and  supplies  it  ;  and  who  seeks 

A  social  not  a  dissipated  life, 

Has  business  ;  feels  himself  engaged  t'  acheive 

No  unimportant,  though  a  silent,  task. 

A  life  all  turbulence  and  noise  may  seem 

To  him  th  t  leads  it  wise,  and  lo  be  praised; 

But  wisdom  is  a  pearl  with  most  success 

Sought  in  still  water,  and  beneath  clear  skies. 

He  that  is  ever  occupied  in  storms 

Or  dives  not  for  it,  or  brings  up  instead, 

Vair.ly  industrious,  a  disgraceful  prize. 

The  morning  finds  the  self-sequester'd  man 
Fresh  for  his  task,  intend  what  task  he  may. 
Whether  inclement  seasons  recommend 
His  warm  but  simple  home,  where  he  enjoys 
With  her,  who  shares  his  pleasures  and  his  heart, 
Sweet  converse,  sipping  calm  the  fragrant  lymph, 
Which  neatly  she  prepares  ;  then  to  his  book 
Well  chosen,  and  not  sullenly  perus'd 
In  selfish  silence,  but  imparted  oft, 
As  aught  occurs,  that  she  may  smile  to  hear, 
Or  turn  to  nourishment,  digested  well. 
Or  if  the  garden  with  its  many  cares, 
All  well  repaid,  demand  him,  he  attends 
The  welcome  call,  conscious  how  much  the  hand 
Of  lubbard  Labour  needs  his  watchful  eye, 
Oft  loit'ring  lazily,  if  not  o'erseen, 
Or  misapplying  his  unskilful  strength. 
Nor  does  he  govern  only  or  direct, 
But  much  performs  himself.     No  works  indeed, 
Th;:t  ask  robust,  tough  sinews,  bred  to  toil, 
Servile  employ  ;  but  such  as  may  amuse, 
Not  tire,  demanding  rather  ^kill  than  force. 
Proud  of  his  well-spread  walls,  he  views  his  trees, 
That  meet,  no  barren  interval  between, 
Wiih  pleasure  more  than*  e'en  their  fruits  afford  ; 
Which,  save  himself  who  trains  them,  none  can  feel. 
These  therefore  are  his  own  peculiar  charge  ; 
No  meaner  hand  may  discipline  the  shoots, 


THE    GARDEN.  225 

Noi  e  but  his  steel  approach  them.     What  is  weak, 
Disteuiper'd,  or  has  Jost  prolific  pow'rs, 
linpair'd  by  age,  his  unrelenting  hand 
Dooms  to  the  knife  nor  does  he  spare  the  soft  : 
And  succulent,  that  feeds  ks  giant  growth, 
But  barren,  at  th'  expense  of  neighb'ring  twigs 
Less  ostentatious,  and  yet  studded  thick 
With  hopeful  gems.     The  rest,  no  portion  left 
That  may  disgrace  his  art,  or  disappoint 
Large  expectation,  he  disposes  neat 
At  measured  distances,  that  air  and  sun, 
Admitted  freely,  may  afford  theii  aid, 
And  ventilate  and  warm  the  swelling  buds. 
Hence  Summer  has  her  riches,  Autumn  hence, 
And  hence  e'en  Winter  fills  his  wither'd  hand 
With  blushing  fruits,  and  plenty  not  his  own.* 
Fair  recompense  of  labor  well  bestow'd, 
And  wise  precaution;   which  a  clime  so  rude 
Makes  needful  still,  whose  Spring  is  but  the  child 
Of  churlish  Winter,  in  her  froward  moods 
Discov'ring  much  the  temper  of  her  sire. 
For  oft,  as  if  in  her  the  stream  of  mild 
Maternal  nature  had  revers'd  its  course, 
She  brings  her  infants  forth  with  many  smiles  ; 
But  once  deliver'd  kills  them  with  a  frown. 
He  therefore  timely  warn'd  himself  supplies 
Her  want  of  care,  screening  aiid  keeping  warm 
The  plenteous  bloom,  that  no  rough  blast  may  sweep 
His  garlands  from  the  boughs.     Again,  as  oft 
As  the  sun  peeps  and  vernal  airs  breathe  mild, 
The  fence  withdrawn,  he  gives  them  ev'ry  beam, 
And  spreads  his  hopes  before  the  blaze  of  day. 
To  raise  the  prickly  and  green-coated  gourd, 
So  grateful  to  the  palate,  and  when  rare 
So  coveted,  else"  base  and  disesteemed  — 
Food  for  the  vulgar  merely  —  is  an  art 
That  toiling  ages  have  but  just  matur'd, 
And  at  this  moment  unassay'd  in  song. 
Yet  gnats  have  had,  and  frogs  and  mice,  long  sin«:e, 
Their  eulogy;   those  sang  the  Mantuan  bard, 
A:id  these  the  Grecian,  in  ennobling  strains  ; 
And  in  thy  numbers,  Phillips,  shines  for  aye 
The  solitary  shilling.     Pardon  then, 
Ye  sage  dispensers  of  poetic  fame, 
Th'  ambition  of  one  meaner  far,  whose  pow'rs. 
Presuming  an  attempt  not  less  sublime, 


*  ' 


Miraturque  novos  fructus  et  non  sua  poma. 


226  THE    TASK. 

Pant  for  the  praise  of  dressing  to  the  taste 
Of  critic  appetite,  no  sordiJ.  fare, 
A  cucumber;  while  costly  yet  and  scarce. 
The  siable  yields  a  steicoraceous  heap, 
Impregnated  with  quick  fermenting  baits, 
And  potent  to  res;si  the  freezing  blast : 
For,  ere  the  beech  and  elm  have  cast  their  leaf 
Deciduous,  when  now  November  dark 
Checks  vegetation  in  the  torpid  plant 
Expos'd  to  his  cold  breath,  the  task  begins. 
Warily  therefore,  and  with  prudent  heed, 
He  seeks  a  f.ivor'd  spot ;   that  Wiere  he  builds 
Th'  agglomerated  pile  his  frame  may  front 
The  sun's  meridian  disk,  and  at  the  back 
Enjoy  close  shelter,  wall,  or  re(  ds,  or  hedge 
Impervious  to  the  wind.     First  he  bids  spread 
Dry  fern  or  litter'd  hay,  that  may  imbibe 
111'  ascending  damps;    then  leisurely  impose, 
And  lightly,  shaking  it  with  agile  hand 
From  flhe  full  fork,  the  saturated  straw. 
What  longest  binds  the  closest  forms  secure, 
The  shapely  side,  that  as  it  rises  takes, 
By  just  degrees,  an  overhanging  breadth, 
Slielt'  ring  the  base  with  its  projected  eaves; 
Th'  uplifted  frame,  compact  at  ev'ry  joint, 
And  overlaid  with  clear  translucent  glass, 
He  settles  next  upon  the  sloping  mount, 
Whose  sharp  declivity  shoots  off  secure 
From  the  dash'dpane  the  deluge  as  it  falls. 
He  shuts  it  close,  and  the  first  labour  ends 
Thrice  must  the  voluble  and  restless  Earth 
Spin  round  upon  her  axle,  ere  the  warmth, 
Slow  gath'ring  in  the  midst,  through  the  square  mass 
Diti'us'd,  attain  the  surface:   when,  behold! 
A  pestilent  and  most  corrosive  steam, 
Like  a  gross  fog  Boeotian,  rising  fast, 
And  fast  condens'd  upon  the  dewy  sash, 
Asks  egress ;  which  obtained,  the  overcharg'd 
And  drencli'd  conservatory  breathes  abroad 
In  volumes  wheeling  slow,  the  vapor  dank; 
And,  purified,  rejoices  to  have  lost 
Its  foul  inhabitant.     But  to  assuage 
Th'  impatient  fervor,  which  it  first  conceives 
'Within  its  reeking  bosom,  threat'ning  death 
To  his  young  hopes,  requires  discreet  delay. 
Experience,  slow  preceptress,  teaching  oft 
The  way  to  glory  by  miscarriage  loul, 
Must  prompt  him,  and  admonish  how  to  catch 
Th' auspicious  moment,  when  the  temper'd  heat 


THE    GARDEN.  227 

Friendly  to  vital  motion,  may  afford 

Soft  fomentation,  and  invite  the  seed. 

The  seed,  selected  wisely,  plump,  and  smooth, 

And  glossy,  he  commits  to  pots  of  size 

Diminutive,  well  h'll'd  with  wvll-prepar'd 

And  fruitful  soil,  that  has  been  tivasur'd  long, 

And  drank  no  moisture  from  the  dripping  clouds. 

These  on  the  warm  and  genial  earth,  that  hides 

The  smoking  manure,  and  o'erspreads  it  all, 

He  places  lightly,  and,  as  time  subdues 

The  rage  of  fermentation,  plunges  deep 

In  the  soft  medium,  till  they  stand  immers'd. 

Then  rise  the  tender  germs,  upstarting  quick, 

And  spreading  wide  their  spongy  lobes  ,   at  first 

Pale,  wan,  and  livid  ;  Gut  assuming  soon, 

If  fann'd  by  balmy  and  nutritious  air, 

Strain'd  through  the  friendly  mats,  a  vivid  green. 

Two  leaves  produc'd,  two  ruugli  indented  leaves, 

Cautious  he  pinches  from  the  second  stalk 

A  pimple,  that  portends  a  futuie  sprout, 

And  interdicts  its  growth.     Thence  straight  succeed 

The  branches,  sturdy  to  his  utmost  wish  ; 

Prolific  all,  and  harbingers  of  more. 

The  crowded  roots  demand  enlargement  now, 

And  transplantation  in  an  ampler  space. 

Indulged  in  what  they  wish,  they  soon  supply 

Large  foliage,  o'ershadowing  golden  flowers, 

Blown  on  the  summit  of  th'  apparent  fruit. 

These  have  their  sexes !   and,  when  summer  shines, 

The  bee  transports  the  fertilizing  meal 

From  flow'r  to  ttow'r,  and  e'en  the  breathing  air 

Wafts  the  rich  prize  to  its  appointed  use. 

Not  so  when  winter  scowls.     Assistant  Art 

Then  acts  in  Nature's  office,  brings  to  pass 

The  glad  espousals,  and  ensures  the  crop. 

Grudge  not,  ye  rich,  (since  Luxury  must  have 
His  dainties,  and  the  World's  more  num'rous  half 
Lives  by  contriving  delicates  for  you,) 
Grudge  not  the  cost.     Ye  little  know  the  cares, 
The  vigilance,  the  labor,  and  the  skill, 
That  day  and  night  are  exercis'd,  and  hang 
Upon  the  ticklish  balance  of  suspense, 
That  ye  may  garnish  your  profuse  regales 
With  summer  fruits  brought  forth  by  wintry  suns. 
Ten  thousand  dangers  lie  in  wait  to  thwart 
The  process.     Heat  and  cold,  and  wind,  and  steam, 
Moisture  and  drought,  mice,  worms,  and  swarming  flies 
Minute  as  dust,  and  numberless,  oft  work 
Dire  disappointment,  that  admits  no  cure, 


228  THE    TASK. 

And  which  no  care  can  obviate.     It  were  long, 
Too  long,  to  tell -tli'  expedients  and  the  shifts, 
Which  he  that  tights  a  season  so  severe 
Devises,  while  he  guards  his  tender  trust ; 
And  oft  at  last  in  vain.     The  learn'd  and  wise 
Sarcastic  would  exclaim,  and  judge  the  song 
Cold  as  its  theme,  and  like  its  theme  the  fruit 
Of  too  much  labor,  worthless  when  produc'd. 

Who  loves  a  garden  loves  a  greenhouse  too. 
Unconscious  of  a  less  propitious  clime, 
There  blooms  exotic  beauty,  warm  and  snug, 
While  the  winds  whistle,  and  the  snows  descend. 
Ihe  spiry  myrtle  with  unwith'ring  leaf 
Shines  there,  and  flourishes.     The  golden  boast 
Of  Portugal  and  western  India  there, 
The  ruddier  orange,  and  the  paler  lime, 
Peep  through  their  polish'd  foliage  at  the  storm, 
And  seem  to  smile  at  what  they  need  not  fear. 
Th'  amomum  there  with  intermingling  ttow'rs 
And  cherries  hangs  her  twigs.     Geranium  boasts 
Her  crimson  honors;  and  the  spangled  beau, 
Ficoides,  glitters  bright  the  winter  long. 
Ail  plants,  of  ev'ry  leaf,  that  can  endure 
The  winter's  frown,  if  screen'd  from  his  shrewd  bite, 
Live  there,  and  prosper.     Those  Ausonia  claims, 
Levantine  regions  these;  th'  Azores  send 
Their  jessamine,  her  jessamine  remote 
Caffraia  :  foreigners  from  many  lands, 
They  form  one  social  shade,  as  if  conven'd 
By  magic  summons  of  th'  Orphean  lyre. 
Yet  just  arrangement,  rarely  brought  to  pass 
But  by  a  master's  hand,  disposing  well 
The  gay  diversities  of  leaf  and  flow'r, 
Must  lend  its  aid  t'  illustrate  all  their  charms, 
And  dress  the  regular  yet  various  scene. 
Plant  behind  plant  aspiring,  in  the  van 
The  dwarfish,  in  the  rear  retir'd,  ^ut  still 
Sublime  abode  the  rest,  the  statelier  stand. 
So  once  were  rang'd  the  sons  of  ancient  Rome, 
A  noble  show!  while  Roscius  trod  the  stage, 
And  so,  while  Garrick,  as  renowned  as  he, 
The  sons  of  Albion  ;    fearing  each  to  lose 
Some  note  of  Nature's  music  from  his  lips, 
And  covetous  of  Shaksp^-are's  beauty,  seen 
In  ev'ry  flash  of  his  far-beaming  eye. 
Nor  taste  alone  and  well-contriv'd  display 
huffice  to  give  the  marshall'd  ranks  the  grace 
Lf  their  complete  effect.     Much  yet  remains 
Unsung,  and  many  cares  are  yet  behind, 


T-'rr      GARDEN.  229 

And  more  laborious-  caies  on  which  depends 

Their  vigor,  injur'd  soon,  not  soon  restor'd. 

The  soil  must  be  renew'd,  which  often  wash'd 

Los  s  its  treasure  of  salubrious  salts, 

And  disappoints  the-  roots;   the  slender  roots 

Close  interwoven,  where  they  meet  the  vase 

Must  smooth  be  shorn  away  ;   the  sapless  branch 

Must  fly  before  the  knife  ;   the  wither'd  leaf 

Must  be  detach'd,  and  where  it  strews  the  floor 

Swept  with  a  woman's  neatness,  breeding  else 

Cont.  gion,  and  disseminating-  death. 

Discharge  but  these  kind  offices,  (and  who 

Would  spare,  that  loves  them,  offices  like  these?/ 

Well  they  reward  the  toil.     The  sight  is  pleas'd, 

The  scent  regal'd,  each  odorifrous  leaf, 

Each  op'ning  blossom,  freely  breathes  abroad 

Its  gratitude,  and  thanks  him  with  its  sweets. 

So  manifold,  all  pleasing  in  their  kind, 

All  healthful,  are  th'employs  of  rural  life, 

Reiterated  as  the  wheel  of  time 

Runs  round  ,  still  ending,  and  beginning  still. 

Nor  are  these  all.     To  deck  the  shapely  knoll; 

That  softly  swell'd  and  gaily  dress'd  appears 

A  flow'ry  island,  from  the  dark  green  lawn 

Emerging,  must  be  deem'd  a  labor  due 

To  no  mean  hand,  and  asks  the  touch  of  taste. 

Here  also  grateful  mixture  of  well-match'd 

And  sorted  hues  (each  giving  each  relief, 

And  by  contrasted  beauty  shining  more) 

Is  needful.      Strength  may  witld  the  pond'rous  spade 

May  turn  the  clod,  and  w^ieel  the  comport  home  ; 

But  el  gance,  chief  grace  the  garden  shows, 

And  most  attractive,  is  the  fair  residt 

Of  thought,  the  c?eature  of  a  pohsh'd  mind. 

Without  it  all  is  gothic  as  the  scene, 

To  \»hich  th'insipid  citizen  resorts 

Nea*  yonder  heath  ;   where  Industry  mispent, 

But  proud  of  his  uncouth  ill-chosen  task, 

Has  made  a  heav'n  on  earth  ;   with  suns  ,.nd  moons 

Of  close-ramm'd  stones  has  charg'd  th'encumbcr'd  soil. 

And  fairly  laid  the  zodiac  in  the  dust. 

He,  therefore,  who  would  see  his  flow'rs  dispos'd 

Sightly  and  in  just  order,  ere  he  gives 

The  beds  the  trusted  treasure  of  their  seeds, 

Forecasts  the  future  whole ;  that  when  the  scene 

Shall  break  into  its  pnconceiv'd  display, 

Each  for  itself,  and  all  as  with  one  \oice 

Conspiring,  may  attest  his  bright  design. 

Nor  even  then,  dismissing  as  perform 'd 

His  pleasant  work,  may  he  suppose  it  done. 

x 


THE    '1'ASK. 


Few  self-supported  flow'rs  endure  the  wind 

Uninjur'd,  but  expect  th'  upholding  aid 

Of  the  smooth-shaven  pro]),  and,  neatly  tied, 

Are  wedded  thus,  like  beauty  to  old  age, 

For  int'rest  sake,  the  living  to  the  dead. 

Some  clothe  the  soil  that  feeds  them,  far  diffus'd 

And  lowly  creeping,  modest  and  yet  fair, 

Like  virtue,  thriving  most  where  little  seen  : 

Some  more  aspiring  catch  the  neighbour  shrub 

With  clasping  tendrils,  and  invest  his  branch, 

Else  unadorn'd,  with  many  a  gay  festoon 

And  fragrant  chaplet,  recompensing  well 

The  strength  they  borrow  with  the  grace  they   lend. 

All  hate  the  rank  society  of  weeds, 

Noisome,  and  ever  greedy  to  exhaust 

Th'impov'rish'd  eai  th  ;  an  overbearing  race, 

That,  like  the  multitude  made  faction-  mad, 

Disturb  good  order,  and  degrade  true  worth. 

0  blest  seclusion  from  a  jarring  world, 
Which  he,  thus  occupied,  enjoys!      Retreat 
Cannot  indeed  to  guilty  man  restore 
Lost  innocence,  or  cancel  follies  past  ; 
But  it  has  peace,  and  much  secures  the  mind 
From  all  assaults  of  evil  ;  proving  still 
A  faithful  barrier,  not  o'erleap'd  with  ease 
By  vicious  Custom,  raging  unconlroll'd 
Abroad,  and  desolating  public  life. 
When  fierce  Temptation,  seconded  within 
By  traitor  Appetite,  and  arm'd  with  darts 
Temper'd  in  hell,  invades  the  throbbing  breast, 
To  combat  may  be  glorious,  and  success 
Perhaps  may  crown  us  ;  but  to  fly  is  safe. 
Had  I  the  choice  of  sublunary  good, 
What  could  I  wish,  that  I  possess  not  here  ? 
Health,  leisure,  means  t'improve  it,  friendship,  peace, 
No  loose  or  wanton,  though  a  wand'ring,  muse,* 
And  constant  occupation  without  care. 
Thus  blest  I  draw  a  picture  of  that  bliss 
Hopeless,  indeed,  that  dissipated  minds, 
And  profligate  abusers  of  a  world 
Created  fair  so  much  in  vain  for  them, 
Should  seek  the  guiltless  joys,  that  I  describe, 
A'Uir'd  by  my  report:   but  sure  no  less, 
That  self-condemn'd  they  must  neglect  the  prize, 
And  what  they  "'ill  not  taste  must  yet  approve. 
What  we  admire  we  praise  ;  and,  when  we  praise, 
Advance  it  into  notice,  that,  its  worth 
Acknowledg'd,  others  may  admire  it  too. 
I  therefore  recommend,  though  at  the  risk 
Of  popular  disgust,  yet  boldly  still, 


THE    GARDEN.  231 

The  cause  of  piety,  and  sacred   truth, 

An. I  virtue,  and  those  scenes,  which  God  ordain'd 

Sliou'd  best  secure  them,  and  promote  them  nio-t  ; 

Scenes,  that  1  love,  and  with  regret  perceive 

Foivaken,  or  through  lolly  not  enjoy'd. 

i'mv  is  th  •  nymph,  though  hb'ral  ot'  her  smiles 

And  chaste,  though  unconfin'd,  whom   1  <.'xtol 

Not  a>  the  prince  in  Shushan.  when  he  call'd, 

Yam  glorious  of  her  charms,  his  Vaslui  forth, 

To  grace  the  full  pavilion.      His  design 

Was  but  to  boast  his  own  peculiar  good, 

Which  all  might  view  with  envy,  none  partake. 

My  c'larmer  is  not  mine  alone  ;  my  sweets 

And  she  that  sweetens  all  my  bitters  too, 

N -iture.  enchanting  Nature,  in  whose  form 

And  lineaments  divine  i  trace  a  hand, 

That  errs -not,  and  find  raptures  still  renew'd, 

Is  tVee  to  all  men —universal  prize. 

Strange  that  so  fair  a  creature  should  yet  want 

Admirers,  and  he  destin'd  to  divide 

With  meaner  objects  e'en  the  few  she  finds ! 

Stripp'd  of  her  ornaments,  her  leaves  and  rlow'rs, 

She  loses  all  her  influence.     Cities  then 

Attract  us,  and  neglected  Nature  pines 

Abandon'd,  as  unworthy  of  our  Live. 

But  are  not  wholesome  airs,  though  unpevfum'd 

By  roses;  and  clear  suns,  though  scarcely  felt; 

Ami  groves,  if  unharmonious,  yet  se  ure 

From  clamor,  and  whose  very  silence  charms ; 

To  be  preferr'd  to  smoke,  to  the  eclipse, 

That  metropolitan  volcanos  make, 

Whose  Stygian  throat  breathe  darkness  all  day  long; 

And  to  the  stir  of  Commerce,  driving  slow, 

And  thund'ring  loud,  with  his  ten  thousand  wheels? 

They  would  be,  were  not  madness  in  the  head, 

Ami  folly  in  the   heart  ;  were  England  DOW, 

VVh..t  England  was,  plain,  hospitable,  kind, 

And  undi-bauch'd.      But  we  have  bid  farewell 

To  all   the  virtues  of  those  better  days, 

And  all  their  honest  pleasures.      Mansions  once 

Knew  their  own  masters,   and  laborious  hinds, 

Wh  )  Had  surviv'd  the  father,  serv'd  the  son. 

Now  the  legitimate  and  rightful  lord 

Is  but  a  transient  guest,  newly  arriv'd, 

As  soon  to  be  supplanted.     'He,  that  saw 

His  patrimonial  timber  cast  its  leaf, 

Sells  the  last  standing,  and  transfers  the  price 

T  )  some  shrewd    sh  ;rper,  ere  it  buds  again. 

Estates  are  landscapes,  ga/'d  upon  a  while, 


S32  THE    TASK. 

Then  advertis'd,  and  auctioneer'd  aw.ny. 

The  country  starves,  and  they,  that  feed  th'o'ercharg'd 

And  surfeited  lewd  town  with  her  fair  dues, 

By  c.  just  judgment  strip  and  starve  themselves. 

The  wings,  that  waft  our  riches  out  of  sight, 

Grow  on  the  gamester's  elbows;  and  th'alert 

And  nimble  motion  of  those  restless  joints, 

That  never  tire,  soon  f:tns  them  all  away 

Improvemert  too,  the  idol  of  the  age, 

Is  fed  with  many  a  victim.     Lo,  he  comes  ! 

Th 'omnipotent  magician,  Brown,  appears  ! 

Down  falls  the  venerable  pile,  th'abode 

Of  our  forefathers — a  grave  whisker'd  race, 

Rijf  tasfflpgg      Springs  a  palace  in  its  stead, 

But  in  a  distant  spot ;  where  more  expos'd 

Jt  may  enjoy  th'advantage  of  the  north, 

And  aguish  east,  till  time  shall  have  transform'd 

Those  naked  acres  to  a  shelt'ring  grove. 

He  speaks.     The  lake  in  front  becomes  a  lawn ; 

Woods  vanish,  hills  subside,  and  valleys  rise; 

And  streams,  as  if  created  for  his  use, 

Pursue  the  track  of  his  directing  wand, 

Sinuous  or  straight,  now  rapid  and  now  slow, — 

Now  murm'ring  soft,  now  roaring  in  cascades — 

E'en  as  he  bids  !     Th'enraptur'd  owner  smiles. 

'Tis  finish'd,  and  yet,  finish' d  as  it  seems, 

Still  wa  its  a  g-ace,  the  loveliest  it  could  show, 

A  mine  to  satisfy  th'enormous  cost. 

Drain'd  to  the  last  poor  item  of  his  wealth, 

He  sighs,  departs,  and  leaves  th'accomphsh'd  plan, 

That  he  has  touch'd,  retouch'd,  many  a  long  day 

Labor'd,  and  many  a  night  pursu'd  in  dreams, 

Just  when  it  meets  his  hopes,  and  proves  the  heav'n 

He  wanted,  for  a  wealthier  to  enjoy! 

And  now  peihaps  the  glorious  hour  is  come, 

"When,  having  no  stake  left,  no  pledge  t'endear 

Her  int' rests,  or  that  gives  her  sacred  cause 

A  moment's  operation  on  his  love, 

He  burns  with  most  intense  and  flagrant  zeal 

To  serve  his  country.     Ministerial  grace 

Deals  him  out  money  from  the  public  chest; 

Or,  if  that  mine  be  shut,  some  private  purse 

Supplies  his  need  with  a  usurious  loan, 

To  be  refunded  duly,  when  his  vote 

Well-manag'd  shall  have  earn'd  its  worthy  price. 

O  i   nocc -nt,  compar'd  with  arts  like  these, 

Crape,  and  cock'd  pistol,  and  the  whistling  ball 

Sent  through  the  traveler's  temples!      lie,  that  rinds 

One  drop  of  Heav'ivs  sweet  mercy  in  his  cup, 


THE    GARDEN.  233 

Can  dig,  beg-,  rot,  and  perish,  well  content, 
So  he  may  wrap  himself  in  honest  rags 
At  his  last  gasp  ;   but  could  not  tor  a  world 
Fish  up  his  dirty  am!  dependent  bread 
From  pools  anil  ditches  of  the  commonwealth, 
Sordid  and  sii-k'ning  at  his  own  success. 

Ambition,  av'rice,  penury  incurr'J 
By  endless  rior,  vanity,  the  lust 
Ot  pleasure  and  \ariety,  dispatch, 
As  duly  as  the  swallo.vs  disappear, 
The  world  of  wand'ring  knights  and  squires  to  town. 
London  insult's  them  all !     The  shark  is  there, 
And  the  shark's  p  ey  ;   the  spendthrift,  and  the  leech 
That  sucks  him:   there  the  sycophant,  and  he 
Who,  with  bareheaded  and  obsequious  bows, 
Begs  a  warm  office,  doom  d  to  a  cold  jail 
And  groat  per  diem,  if  his  patron  frown. 
The  levee  swarms,  as  if  in  golden  pomp 
\Vere  character' d  on  ev'ry  statesman's  door, 
'  Butter' <l  and  bankrupt  fortunes  mended  here.' 
These  are  the  charms,  that  sully  and  eclipse 
The  charms  of  nature.     'Tis  the  cruel  gripe 
That  lean,  hard-handed  Poverty  inflicts, 
The  hope  of  better  things,  the  chance  to  win, 
The  wish  to  shine,  the  thirst  to  be  amus'd, 
That  at  the  sound  of  Winter's  hoary  wing 
Unpeople  all  our  counties  of  sueh  herds 
Of  Hutt'ring,  loit'ring,  cringing,  begging,  loose, 
And  wanton  vagrants,  as  make  London,  vast 
And  boundless  as  it  is,  a  crowded  coop. 

O  thou,  resort  and  mart  of  all  the  earth, 
Checker' ci  with  all  complexions  of  mankind, 
And  spotted  with  all  crimes  ;  in  whom  I  see 
Much  that  I  love,  and  more  that  I  admire, 
And  all  that  I  abhor;  thou  freckled  fair, 
That  pleasest  and  yet  shock'st  me,  I  can  laugh, 
And  I  can  weep,  can  hope,  and  can  despond, 
Feel  wrath  and  pity,  when  1  think  on  tliee  ' 
Ten  righteous  would  have  sav'd  a  city  once, 
And  thou  hast  many  righteous. — Well  for  thee— 
That  salt  preserves  thee  ;   more  corrupted  else, 
Ami  therefore  more  obnoxious,  at  this  hour, 
Than  Sodom  in  her  day  had  pow'r  to  be, 
For  whom  CJod  heard  his  Abr'ham  plead  in  vain. 


x  2 


THE  TASK. 

BOOK  IV. 
THE  WINTER  EVENING. 

ARGUMENT  OF  THE  FOURTH  BOOK. 

The  post  comes  in. — The  newspaper  is  read. — The  world  contemplated  e4 
a  distance. — Address  to  Wirier. — The  rural  amusements  of  a  winter 
Evening  compared  with  the  fashionable  ones. — Address  to  Evening. — 
A.  brown  study. — Fall  of  snow  in  the  evening. — The  waggoner. — A  poor 
family-piece. — The  rural  thief. — Public  houses. — The  multitude  of  them 
censured. — The  farmer's  daughter  :  what  she  was — what  she  is. — The 
limplicity  of  country  manners  almost  lost. — Causes  of  the  change.  De- 
iertion  of  the  country  by  the  rich. — Neglect  of  magistrates. — The  militia 
principally  in  fault. — The  new  recruit  and  his  transformation. — Reflec- 
ion  on  bodies  corporate. — The  love  of  rural  objects  natural  to  all,  and 
lever  to  be  totally  extinguished. 

Hark !  'tis  the  twanging  horn  o'er  yonder  bridge 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  Iriigth 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  moon 
Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bright;— 
He  conies,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world, 
With  spatter'd  boots,  strapp'd  waist,  and  frozen  locks; 
News  from  all  nations  lutnb'ring  at  his  back. 
True  to  his  charge,  the  close-pack'd  load  behind, 
Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  desdn'd  inn ; 
And,  having  dropp'd  th'expected  bag,  pass  on. 
He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch, 
Cold  and  yet  cheerful:  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  ot  joy  to  some; 
To  him  indiff'rent  whether  grief  or  joy. 
Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks, 
Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 
With  tears,  that  trickled  down  the  writer's  cheeks 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill, 
Or  charg'd  with  am'rous  sighs  of  absent  swains- 
Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 
His  hoist-  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 


THE    WINTER    EVENING. 

But  O  th'  important  budget!  usher'd  in 
With  such  heart-shaking  music,  who  can  say 
What  are  its  tidings  ?   h.ive  our  troops  awak'd? 
Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  di  ugg'd, 
Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  th' Atlantic  wave  ? 
Is  India  fret?  ?   and  does  she  wear  her  plum'd 
And  jewell'd  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace, 
Oi  do  we  grind  her  still  ?    The  grand  debate, 
The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply, 
The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit, 
And  the  loud  laugh  —  I  long  to  know  them  all  ; 
I  burn  to  set  th'imprison'd  wranglers  free, 
Ail'!  give  them  voice  and  utt'rance  once  again. 
Now  stir  the  tire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  f  ,11  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And,  while  the  bubbling  and  loud  hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  ste  imy  coiuiun,  and  the  cups, 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each. 
So  let  us    welcome  peaceful  ev'ning  in. 
Not  such  his  ev'ning,  who  with  shining  lace 
Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and,  squeez'd 
And  bo.  'd  vvich  elbow-points  through  both  his  sides, 
Outscolds  the  ranting  actor  on  the  stage: 
Nor  his,  who  patient  stands  till  his  feet  throb, 
And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 
Of  patriots,  bursting  with  heroic  rage, 
Or  placemen,  all  tranquillity  and  smiles. 
This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work! 
Which  not  e'en  critics  criticise  ;   that  holds 
Inquisitive  Attention,  while  I  read, 
Fast  bound   in  chains  of  silence,  which  the  fair, 
Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear  to  break; 
What  is  it,  but  a  map  of  busy  life, 
Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns? 
Here  runs  the  mountainous  and  craggy  ridge, 
That  tempts  Ambition.     On   the  summit  see 
The  seals  of  office  glitter  in  his  eyes ; 
He  climbs,  he  pants,  he  grasps  them  !     At  his  heels, 
Close  at  his  heels,  a  demagogue  ascends, 
And  with  a  dext'rous  jerk  soon  twists  him  down, 
And  wins  them,  but  to  lose  them  in  his  turn. 
Here  rills  of  oily  eloquencce  in  soft 
Meanders  lubricate  the  course  they  take  ; 
The  modest  speaker  is  asham'd  and  griev'd, 
T'engross  a  moment's  notice  ;  and  yet  begs, 
Begs  a  propitious  ear  for  his  poor  thoughts, 
However  trivial  all  that  he  conceives. 
Sweet  bashfulnesa  !  it  claims  at  least  this  praise  ) 
The  dearth  of  inicuraation  and  good  seuse, 


236  THE   TASK. 

That  it  foretells  us,  always  conies  to  past}. 

Cat'racfs  of  decla.nation  thunder  here  ; 

There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page, 

In  which  all  comprehension  wanders  lost ; 

While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there 

With  merry  descants  on  a  nation's  woes. 

The  rest  appears  a  wilderness  of  strange 

Bat  gay  confusion  ;  roses  for  the  cheeks, 

And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age, 

Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald, 

Heav'n,  earth,  and  ocean,  plunder'd  of  their  sweets? 

Nectareous  essences,  Olympian  dews, 

Sermons,  and  city  feasts,  and  fa v' rite  airs, 

^Ethereal  journeys,  submarine  exploits, 

And  Katerfelto,  with  his  hair  on--end 

At  his  own  wonders,  worn! 'ring  for  his  bread. 

'Tis  pleasant,  through  the  loopholes  of  retreat, 
To  peep  at  such  a  world  ;  to  see  the  stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  an  1  not  feel  the  crowd  ; 
To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her  gates 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  a  soft  murmur  on  th'uninjur'd  ear. 
Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at  ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I  seem  advanc'd 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height, 
That  lib' rates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all. 
It  turns  submitted  to  my  view,  turns  round 
With  all  its  generations  ;   I  behold 
The  tumult,  and  am  still.     The  sound  of  war 
Has  lost  its  terrors  ere  it  reaches  me  ; 
Grieves,  but  alarms  me  not.     I  mourn  the  pride 
And  av'rice,  thit  make  man  a  wolf  to  man ; 
Hear  the  faint  echo  of  those  brazen  throats, 
By  which  he  speaks  the  language  of  his  heart, 
And  sigh,  but  never  tremble  at  the  sound. 
He  travels  and  expatiates,  as  the  bee 
From  fiovv'r  to  flow'r,  so  he  from  land  to  Ian  1  ; 
The  manners,  customs,  policy,  of  all 
Pay  contribution  to  the  store  he  gleans  ; 
He  sucks  intelligence  in  ev'ry  cl.me, 
And  spreads  the  honey  of  his  deep  research 
At  his  return — a  rich  repast  for  me. 
He  travels,  and  I  too.     I  tread  his  deck, 
Ascend  his  topmast,  through  his  peering  eyes 
Discover  countries,  with  a  kindred  heart 
Suffer  his  woes,  and  share  in  his  escapes; 
While  fancy,  like  the  finger  of  a  clock, 
Huns  the  great  circuit,  and  is  still  at  home. 

O  Winter,  ruler  of  th'inverted  year, 


THE    WINTER    EVENING.  237 

Thy  scatter'd  hair  with  sleet  like  ashes  fill'd, 

Thy  breath  c  uigeal'.l  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 

Fring'J  with  a  heard  inaJe  white  with  other  snows 

Til  in  those  of  age,  thy  torch -'ad  wrapp'd  in  cl  mils, 

A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  ami  thy  throne 

A  sliding  car,  indeb  eil  to  no  wheels. 

But  urg'd  hy  storms  along  its  slipp'ry  way, 

1  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st 

And  dreaded  as  thou  art !      Thou  hold'st  the  sun 

A  pris'ner  in  the  yet  undawning  east, 

ISho  t'ning  his  j  uirney  between  morn  and  noon, 

And  hurrying  hi.n,  impitient  of  his  stay, 

Down  to  the  rosy  west;   but  kindly  still 

Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 

Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 

A  id  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 

The  fam.ly  dispers'd,  and  fixing  thought, 

Not  less  dispers'd  by  daylight  and  its  cares- 

1  crown  the?  king  of  intimate  delights, 

Fire-side  enjoyments,  homeborn  happiness, 

And  all  tiie  co  aforts,  that  the  lowly  roof 

Of  undisturb'd  Retirement,  and  the  hours 

Of  long  uninterrupted  ev'ning,  know. 

No  ratiling  wheels  stop  short  before  these  ^ates ; 

No  powrder'd  pert  proficient  in  the  art 

Of  sounding  an  alarm  assaults  these  doors 

Till  the  street  rings  ;   no  stationary  steeds 

Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the  sound, 

The  silent  circle  fm  themselves,  and  quake: 

But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task, 

The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted  tiow'r, 

Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn, 

Unfolds  its  bosom  ;   buds,  and  leaves,  and  sjrigs, 

And  culling  tendrils,  gracefully  dispos'd, 

Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair; 

A  wreath,  that  cannot  fade,  of  tiow'rs,  that  blow 

With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 

The  poet's  or  historian's  page  by  one 

Maae  vocal  for  th'amusement  of  the  rest  ; 

The  sprightly  lyre,  \4Jiose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 

The  touch  from  many  a  trembling  chord  shakes  out; 

And  the  clear  voije  syraphonious,  yet  distinct, 

And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still  ; 

Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener  edge 

On  female  industry  :   the  threaded  steel 

F'les  swiftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 

The  volume  clos'd,  the  customary  rites 

Of  the  last  meal  commence.       A  Roman  meal  ; 

Such  as  the  mistress  of  the  world  ouce  lound 


THE   TASK. 

Delicious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note, 
Perhaps  by  moonlight,  at  their  humble  doors 
And  under  an  old  oak's  domestic  shade, 
Edjo^'d,  spare  feast!    a  radish  and  an  egg. 
Discuu.se  ensues,  not  trivial,  yet  not  dull, 
N ->r  such  as  with  a  frown  forbids  the  play 
Of  fancy,  or  proscribes  the  sound  of  mirth  : 
No:  d •>  W'_>  madly,  like  an  impious  world, 
Who  deem  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God 
Th  it  ma.le  them,  an  intruder  on  their  joys, 
Start  at  his  awful  name,  or  deem  bis  praise 
A  jarring  note.     Themes  of  a  graver  tone, 
Exciting  oft  our  gratitude  and  love, 
Wuile  we  retrace  with  Mem'ry's  pointing  wand, 
That  calls  the  past  co  our  exact  review, 
The  dangers  we  have  'scap'd,  the  broken  snare, 
The  disappointed  foe,  deliv'rance  found 
Unlook'd  for.  life  preserv'd,  and  peace  restor'd, 
Fruits  of  omnipotent  eternal  love. 
O  ev'nings  worthy  of  the  gods!   exclaim'd 
The  Sabine  bard.     O  ev'nings,  I  reply, 
More  to  be  pri/'d  and  coveted  than  yours, 
As  more  illumin'd,  and  with  nobler  truths, 
That  I,  and  mine,  and  those  we  love,  enjoy. 

Is  Winter  hideous  in  a  garb  like  this? 
Needs  he  the  tragic  fur,  the  smoke  of  lamps, 
The  pent-up  breath  of  an  unsav'ry  throng, 
To  thaw  him  into  feeling ;  or"  the  smart 
And  snappish  dialogue,  that  flippant  wits 
Call  comedy,  to  prompt  him  with  a  smile? 
The  self-complacent  actor,  when  he  views 
(Stealing  a  sidelong  glance  at  a  full  house) 
The  slope  of  faces  from  the  floor  to  th'roof 
(As  if  one  master-spring  controll'd  them  all) 
Relax'd  into  a  universal  grin, 
Sees  not  a  count'n  nice  there  that  speaks  of  joy 
Half  so  refinM  or  so  sincere  as  ours. 
Cards  were  superfluous  here,  with  all  the  tricks, 
That  idleness  lias  ever  yet  contiv'd 
To  till  the  void  of  an  unfurnish'd  brain, 
To  palliate  dullness,  and  give  time  a  shove. 
Time,  as  he  passes  us,  has  a  dove's  wing, 
Unsoil'd,  and  swift,  and  of  a  silken  sound  ; 
But  the  world's  Time  is  Time  in  masquerade! 
Theirs,  should  I  paint  him,  has  his  pinions  fledg'd 
With  motley  plumes;  am!,  where  the  peacock  shows 
His  azure  eyes,  is  tinctur'd  black    and  red 
With  spots  quadrangular  of  diamond  form, 
Ensanguin'd  hearts,  clubs  typical  of  strife. 


THE    WINTER    EVENING.  238 

And  spades,  the  emblem  of  untimely  craves. 

What  should  be,  and  what  was  an  hourglass  once, 

Becomes  a  dice  hox,  ?nd  a  billiard-mace 

Well  dees  the  work  of  his  destructive  scvthe. 

Thus  deck'd,  he  charms  a  world  whom  fashion  blinds 

To  his  true  worth,  most  pleas'd  when  idle  most; 

Whose  only  happy  are  their  wasted  hours. 

E'en  misses,  at  whose  aye  their  mothers  wore 

The  backstring  and  the  bib,  assume  the  dress 

Of  womanhood,  fit  pupils  in  the  school 

Of  card-devoted  Time,  and  night  by  night 

Plac'd  at  some  vacant  corner  of  the  board, 

Learn  ev'ry  trick,  and  soon  play  all  the  game. 

B  it  truce  with  censure.     Roving  as  I  rove. 

Where  shall  I  find  an  end.  or  how  proceed  ? 

As  he  th,,t  travels  far  oft  turns  aside, 

To  view  some  rugged  rock  or  mouM'ring  tow'r, 

Which  seen  delights  him  not;   then  coming  home 

Describes  and  prints  it.  that  the  world  may  know 

How  far  he  went  for  what  was  nothing  worth  ; 

So  i,  with  brush  in  hand,  and  palette  spread, 

With  colors  mix'd  for  a  far  ditfrent  use, 

Paint  cards,  and  dolls,  and  ev'ry  idle  thing, 

That  Fancy  finds  in  her  excursive  flights. 

Cjme,  Ev'ning,  once  again,  season  of  peace  ; 
Return,  sweet  Ev'ning,  and  continue  long  ! 
Atethinks  I  see  ihee  in  the  streaky  west," 
With  matron  step  slovf  moving,  while  the  Night 
Tr  ads  on  thy  sweeping  train  ;  one  hand  employ'd 
In  letting  fall  the  cu:tain  of  repose 
On  bird  and  be  ist,  the  other  charg'd  for  man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day  : 
Not  sumptuously  adorn'd.  not  needing  aid, 
Like  homely-featur'd  Night,  of  clust'ring  gems  ; 
A  star  or  t.vo,  just  twinkling  on  thy  bmw, 
Suffices  thee  ;  save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers,  not  worn  indeed  on  high 
With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 
With  mo  lest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone, 
Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ampler  round. 
Come  then,  and  thou  shall  find  thy  vot'ry  calm, 
Or  make  me  so.     Composure  is  thy  gift  : 
And,  whether  I  devote  thy  gentle  hours 
To  hooks,  to  music,  or  the  poet's  toil  , 
To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluiing  fruit; 
Or  twining  silken  threads  ro.mcl  iv'ry  reels, 
\Mie;;  ;hey  command  whom  man  was  horn  to  please, 
1  slight  ihee  not.  hut  make  thve  welcome  still. 

Just  when  our  drawing-room^;  1         i  to  blaze 


2-10  THE  TASK, 

With  lights,  by  clear  reflection  multiplied 

From  many  a  mirror,  in  which  he  of  GatB, 

Goliah,  might  have  seen  his  giant  bulk    . 

Whole  without  stooping,  tow'ring  crest  and  all, 

My  pleasures  too  begin.      But  me  perhaps 

The  glo.ving  heart  may  satisfy  a  while 

With  faint  illumination,  that  uplifts 

The  shadows  to  the  ceiling,  there  by  fits 

Dancing  uncouthly  to  the  quiv'ring  flame. 

Not  undelightful  is  an  hour  to  me 

So  spent  in  parlor-twilight :    such  a  gloom 

Suits  well  the  thoughtful  or  unthinking  mind, 

The  mind  contemplative,  with  some  new  theme 

Pregnant,  or  ii.dispos'd  alike  to  all. 

Lau;h  ye,  who  boast  your  more  mercurial  pow'rs, 

That  never  felt  a  stupor,  know  no  pause, 

Ncr  need  one;   I  am  conscious,  and  confess 

Fearless,  a  soul  that  does  not  always  think. 

Me  oft  has  Fancy  ludicrous  and  wild 

Sooth'd  with  a  waking  dream  of  houses,  tow'rs, 

Trees,  churches,  and  strange  visages,  express'd 

In  the  red  cinders,  while  with  poring  eye 

I  gaz'd,  myself  creating  what  I  saw. 

Nor  less  amus'd  have  1  quiescent  watch'd 

The  sooty  films  that  play  upon  the  bars 

Pendulous,  and  foreboding  in  the  view 

Of  superstition,  prophesying  still, 

Though  still  deceived,  some  stranger's  near  approach 

'Tis  thus  the  understanding  takes  repose 

In  indolent  vacuity  of  thought, 

And  sleeps  and  is  refresh'd.     Meanwhile  the  face 

Conceals  the  mood  lethargic  with  a  mask 

Of  deep  deliberation,  as  the  man 

Were  task'd  to  his  full  strength,  absorb'd  and  lost. 

Thus  oft,  reclined  at  ease,  I  lose  an  hour 

At  ev'ning,  till  at  length  the  freezing  blast, 

That  sweeps  the  bolted  shutter,  summons  home 

The  recollected  pow'is;    and  snapping  short 

The  glassy  threads,  with  which  the  fancy  weaves 

Her  brittle  toils,  restores  me  to  myself. 

How  calm  is  my  recess  ;  and  how  the  frost, 

Raging  abroad,  and  the  rough  wind  endear 

The  silence  and  the  warmth  enjoy'd  within! 

I  saw  the  woods  and  fields  at  close  of  day 

A  variegated  show  ;    the  meadows  green, 

Thougi)  faded  :  and  the  lands,  where  lately  wav'd 

The  golden  harvest,  of  a  mellow  brown, 

Upturn'd  so  lately  by  the  forceful  share. 

I  saw  far  off  the  weedy  fallows  smile 


THE    WINTER    EVENING.  241 

With  verdure  not  unprofitable,  graz'd 
By  Hock  ,  fast  feeding1,  and  selecting  each 
His  fav'rite  herb  ;  while  all  the  leaHess  groves 
That  skirt  th 'horizon,  wore  a  sable  hue, 
Scarce  notic'd  in  the  kindred  dusk  of  eve. 
To-morrow  brings  a  change,  a  total  change! 
Which  even  now,  chough  silently  perform'd, 
And  slowly,  and  by  most  unfelt,  the  face 
Of  universal  nature  undergoes. 
Fast  falls  a  rlee.'y  show'r :   the  downy  flakes 
Descending,  and.  with  never-ceasing  lapse, 
Softly  alighting  upon  all  below, 
Assimilate  all  objects.     Earth  receives 
Gladly  the  thick'ning  mantle;  and  the  green 
And  tender  blade,  that  fear'd  the  chilling  blast, 
Escapes  unhurt  beneath  so  warm  a  veil. 

Jn  such  a  world,  so  thorny,  and  where  none 
Finds  happiness  unblighted,  or,  if  found, 
Without  some  thistly  sorrow  at  its  side, 
It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguished  than  ourselves  ;  that  thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  mod'race  ills, 
And  sympathize  with  others  suffring  more. 
Ill  fares  the  trav'ller  now,  and  he  that  stalks 
In  pond'rous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team. 
The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 
By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 
To  the  clogg'd  wheels;  and  in  its  sluggish  pace 
Noiseless  appears  a  moving  hill  of  snow. 
The  toiling  steeds  expand  the  nostril  wide, 
While  ev'ry  breath,  by  respiration  strong 
Forc'd  downward,  is  consolidated  soon 
Upon  their  jutting  chests.     He,  form'd  to  beat 
The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night, 
\Vith  half- shut  eyes,  and  pucker'd  cheeks,  and  teeth 
Presented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 
One  hand  secures  his  hat,  save  when  with  both 
He  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip, 
Resounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 
O  happy  ;  and  in  my  account  denied 
That  sensibility  of  pain,  with  which 
Refinement  is  endued,  thrice  happy  thou! 
Thy  frame,  robust  and  hardy,  feels  indeed 
The  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpair'd. 
The  learn' d  finger  never  need  explore 
Thy  vig'rous  pulse  |  and  the  unhealthful  east 
That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  ev'ry  bone 
Ot  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  thee. 

Y 


242  THE   TASK 

Thy  days  roll  on  exempt  from  household  care ; 
Thy  waggon  is  ihy  wife ,  and  the  poor  beasts, 
That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro, 
Thine  helpless  charge,  dependent  on  thy  care. 
Ah  !  treat  them  kindly  ;  rude  as  thou  appear'st, 
Yet  show  that  thou  hast  mercy  !  which  the  great, 
With  needless  hurry  whirl'd  from  place  to  place, 
Humane  as  they  would  seem,  not  always  show. 

Poor,  yet  industrious,  modest,  quiet,  neat, 
Such  claim  compassion  in  a  night  like  this, 
And  have  a  friend  in  ev'ry  feeling  heart. 
Warm'd  while  it  lasts,  by  labor,  all  day  long 
They  brave  the  season,  an-i  yet  find  at  eve, 
111  clad  and  fed  but  sparely,  time  to  cool. 
The  frugal  housewife  trembles  when  she  lights 
Her  scanty  stock  of  brushwood,  blazing  clear, 
But  dying  soon,  like  all  terrestrial  joys. 
The  few  small  embers  left  she  nurses  well  ; 
And,  while  her  infant  race,  with  outspread  hanJs, 
And  crowded  knees,  sit  cow'ring  o'er  thespaiks, 
Retires,  content  to  quake,  so  they  be  warm'd. 
The  man  i'eels  least,  as  more  inur'd  than  she 
To  winter,  and  the  current  in  his  veins 
More  briskly  mov'd  by  his  severer  toil  ; 
Yet  he  too  finds  his  own  distress  in  theirs. 
The  taper  soon  extinguish'd,  which  I  saw 
Dangled  along  at  the  cold   finger's  end, 
Just  when  the  day  declin'd;  and  the  brown  loaf 
Lodg'd  on  thd  shelf,  half  eaten  without  sauce 
Of  sav'ry  cheese,  or  butter,  costlier  still ; 
Sleep  seems  their  only  refuge  :  for,  alas! 
Where  penury  is  felt  the  thought  is  chain'd, 
And  sweet  colloquial  pleasures  are  but  few. 
With  all  this  thrift  they  thrive  not.     All  the  care 
Ingenious  Parsimony  takes,  but  just 
Saves  the  saiall  inventory,  bed,  and  stool, 
Skillet,  and  old  carv'd  chest,  from  punlic  sale. 
Tht-y  live,  and  live  without  extorted  alms 
From  grudging  hands;  but  other  boast  have  nones 
To  soothe  their  honest  pride,  that  scorns  to  beg, 
Nor  comfort  else,  but  in  their  mutual  love. 
I  praise  you  much,  ye  meek  and  patient  pair, 
For  ye  are  worthy  ;  choosing  rather  far 
A  dry  but  independent  crust,  hard  earn'd, 
And  eaten  with  a  sigh,  than  to  endure 
The  rugged  frowns,  and  insolent  rebuffs 
Of  knaves  in  office,  uartial  in  the  work 
Of  distribution  :  lib'ral  of  their  aid 
To  claoi'rous  ImA  ortunity  in  ra^  - 


THE    WINTER    EVENING. 

But  ofttimes  deaf  to  suppliants,  who  would  blush 

To  wear  a  tattered  garb  however  coarse, 

Who  n  famine  can  iot  reconcile  to  filth  : 

These  ask  wi  h  painful  shyness,  and  refus'd 

Because  deserving,  silently  retire  ! 

But  be  ye  of  good  courage  !  Time  itself 

Shall  much  befriend  you.     Time  shall  give  increase ; 

And  all  your  num'rous  progeny,  well-tiain'd 

But  helpless,  in  few  years  shall  find  their  hands, 

And  labour  too.     Meanwhile  ye  shall  not  want 

"What,  conscious  of  your  virtues,  we  can  spare, 

Nor  what  a  wealthier  than  ourselves  may  send. 

I  mean  the  man,  who,  when  the  distant  poor 

Need  help,  denies  them  nothing  but  his  name. 

But  poverty  with  most,  who  whimper  forth 
Their  long  complaints,  is  self-inflicted  woe  ; 
The  effect  of  laziness  or  sottish  waste. 
Now  goes  the  nightly  thief  prowling  abroad 
For  plunder  ;  much  solicitous  how  best 
He  may  compensate  for  a  day  of  sloth 
By  works  of  darkness  and  nocturnal  wrong. 
\V'oe  to  the  gard'ner's  pale,  the  farmer's  hedge, 
Plash'd  neatly,  and  secur'd  with  driven  stakes 
Deep  in  the  loamy  bank.     Uptorn  by  strength, 
Kesistless  in  so  bad  a  cause,  but  lame 
To  better  deeds,  he  bundles  up  the  spoil, 
An  ass's  burthen,  and  when  laden  most 
And  heaviest,  light  of  foot  steals  fast  away. 
Nor  does  the  boarded  hovel  better  guard 
The  well-stack'd  pile  of  riven  logs  and  roots 
From  his  pernicious  force.      Nor  will  he  leave 
Unwrench'd  the  door,  however  well  secur'd, 
Where  chanticleer  amidst  his  harem  sleeps 
In  unsuspecting  pomp.      'Twitch'd  from  the  perch, 
He  gives  the  princely  bird,  with  all  his  wives, 
To  his  voracious  bag',  struggling  in  vain, 
And  loudly  wond'ring  at  the  sudden  change. 
Nor  this  to  feed  his  own.     'Twere  some  excuse, 
Did  pity  of  their  guff  rings  warp  aside 
His  principle,  and  tempt  him  into  sin 
For  their  support,  so  destitute.     But  they 
Neglected  pine  at  home  ;  themselves,  as  more 
Expos'd  than  others,  with  less  scruple  made 
His  victims,  robb'd  of  their  defenceless  all. 
Cruel  is  all  he  does.     'Tis  quenchless  thirst 
Of  ruinous  ebiiety,  that  prompts 
His  ev'iy  action,  and  imbrutes  the  man. 
O  for  a  law  to  noose  the  villain's  neck, 
Who  starves  his  own  ;  who  persecutes  the  blood 


244  THE    TASK. 

He  gave  them  in  his  children's  veins,  and  hates 
And  .vrjngs  the  woman  he  has  sworn  to  love  ! 

Pass  where  we  may,  through  city  or  through  town, 
Village,  or  hamlet,  of  this  merry  land, 
Though  lean  and  beggard,  ev'ry  twentieth  pace 
Conducts  th' unguarded  nose  to  such  a  whiif 
Of  stale  debauch,  forth  issuing  from  the  styes 
That  Law  has  liceris'd,  as  makes  Teinp'rance  reel. 
There  sit,  involv'd  and  lost  in   curling  clouds 
Of  Indian  fume,  and  guzzling  deep,  the  bour, 
The  lackey,  and  the  groom  :  The  craftsman  there 
Takes  a  Lethean  leave  of  all  his  toil  ; 
Smith,  cobbler;  joiner,  he  that  plies  the  shears, 
And  he  that  kneads  the  dough;   all  1  >uJ  alike, 
All  learned,  and  all  drunk!    the  fidJle  screams 
Plaintive  and  piteous,  as  it  wept  and  wail'd 
Its  wasted  tones  and  harmony  unheard  : 
Fie  ce  the  dispute  whate'er  the  theme  ;  while  she, 
Fell  Discord,  arbitress  of  such  debate, 
Perch 'd  on  the  signpost,  holds  with  even  hand 
Her  undecisive  scales.      In  this  she  lays 
A  weight  of  ignorance  ;  in  that,  of  pride  ; 
And  smiles  delighted  with  th'eternal  poise. 
Dire  is  the  frequent  curse,  and  its  twin  sound, 
The  cheek-distending  oath,  not  to  be  prais'd 
As  ornamental,  musical,  polite, 
Like  those,  which  modern  senators  employ, 
Whose  oath  is  rhet'iic,  and  who  swear  for  fame! 
Behold  the  schools  in  which  plebeian  minds 
Once  simple  are  initiated  in  arts, 
Which  some  may  practice  with  politer  grace, 
Rut  none  with  readier  skill! — 'tis  here  they  learn 
The  road,  that  leads  from  competence  and  peace 
To  indigence  and  rapine;  till  at  last 
Society,  grown  weary  of  the  load, 
Shakes  her  encumber' d  lap,  an  1  casts  them  out. 
But  censure  profits  little  :   vain  th'attempt 
To  advertise  in  verse  a  public  pi-st. 
That,  like  the  filth  with  which  the  peasant  feeds 
His  hungry  acres,  stinks,  and  is  of  use. 
Th'excise  is  fatten'd  with  the  rich  result 
Of  all  this  riot ;   and  ten  thousand  casks, 
For  ever  dribbling  cut  their  base  contents, 
Touch'd  by  the  Midas  finger  of  the  state, 
Bleed  g  >!d  for  ninist<TS  to  sport  away. 
Drink,  and  be  mad  then ;  'tis  your  country  bids ! 
G  '     . ,<  y     '     i  -njiortant  call  ! 

Her  cause  demands  th'assistance  of  your  throats  ;•— 
Ye  all  can  swallow,  and  she  asks  no  more. 


IL 


THE    WINTER    EVENING.  2  id 

Would  I  had  fall'n  upon  those  happier  days, 
That  poets  celebrate;   those  golden  times, 
And  those  Arcadian  scenes  that  Maro  sings, 
And  Sidney,  warbler  of  poetic  prose. 
Nymphs  were  Dianas  then,  and  swains  had  hearts, 
That  felt  their  virtues  :    Innocence,  it  seems, 
From  courts  dis  niss'd,  found  shelter  in  the  groves } 
The  footsteps  of  Simplicity,  impress'd 
Upon  the  yielding  herbage,  (so  they  sing) 
Then  were  not  all  efYac'd  :  then  speech  profane, 
And  manners  profligate,  were  rarely  found, 
Observ'd  as  prodigies,  and  soon  reclaim'd. 
Vain  wish  !    those  days  were  never :    airy  dreams 
Sat  for  tiie  picture:    and  the  poet's  hand, 
imparting  substance  to  an  empty  shade, 
Impos'd  a  gay  delirium  for  a  truth. 
Grant  it:    1  still  must  envy  them  an  age, 
That  favor'd  such  a  dream  ;    in  davs  like  these 
Impossible,  when  Virtue  is  so  scarce, 
Tliat  to  suppose  a  scene  where  she  presides, 
Is  tramontane,  and  stumbles  all  belief. 
No:   we  are  polish'd  now.     The  rural  lass 
Whom  once  her  virgin  modesty  and  grace, 
Her  artless  manners,  and  her  neat  attire, 
So  dignified,  that  she  was  hardly  less 
Than  the  fair  shepherdess  of  old  romance, 
Is  seen  no  more.     The  character  is  lost! 
Her  head,  adorn'd  with  lappets  pinn'd  aloft, 
And  ribands  st.  earning  gay,  superbly  rais'd, 
And  magnified  beyond  alJ  human  size. 
Indebted  to  some  smart  wig-weaver's  hand 
For  more  than  half  the  tresses  it  sustains; 
Her  elbows  ruffled,  and  her  tott'ring  form 
111-propp'd  upon  French  heels  ;  she  might  be  deem'd 
(But  that  the  basket  dangling  on  her  arm 
Interprets  her  more  truly)  of  a  rank 
Too  proud  for  dairy  -work,  or  sale  of  eggs. 
Expect  her  soon  with  footboy  at  her  heels, 
No  longer  blushing  for  her  awkward  load, 
Her  train  and  hei  umbrella  all  her  care  ! 

The  town  has  ting'd  the  country  ;   and  the  stain 
Appears  a  spot  upon  a  vestal's  robe, 
The  worse  for  what  it  soils.     The  fashion  runs 
Down  into  scenes  still  rural ;  but,  alas, 
Scenes  rarely  grac'd  with  rural  manners  now! 
Time  was  when  in  the  pastoral  retreat 
Th 'unguarded  door  was  safe  ;    men  did  not  watch 
T'invade  another's  right,  or  guard  their  own. 
Then  sleep  was  undisturb'd  by  fear,  unscar'd 

Y  2 


216  THE   TASK. 

By  drunken  bowlings ;  and  the  chilling  tale 
Of  midnight  murder  was  a  wonder  heard 
With  doubtful  credit,  told  to  frighten  babes. 
But  farewell  now  to  unsuspicious  nights, 
And  slumbers  unalarm'd!   Now,  ere  you  sleep, 
See  that  your  polish'd  arms  be  prim'd  with  care, 
And  drop  the  night-bolt;  ruffians  are  abroad  ; 
And  the  first  larum  of  the  cock's  shrill  throat 
May  prove  a  trumpet,  summoning-  your  ear, 
To  horrid  sounds  of  hostile  feet  within. 
E'eu  daylight  has  its  dangers;    and  the  walk 
Through  pathless  wastes  and  woods,  unconscious  once 
Of  other  tenants  than  melodious  buds, 
Or  harmless  flocks,  is  hazardous  and  bold. 
Lamented  change!   to  which  full  many  a  cause 
Invet'rate,  hopeless  of  a  cure,  conspires. 
The  course  of  human  things  from  good  to  ill, 
From  ill  to  worse,  is  fatal,  never  fails. 
Increase  of  pow'r  begets  increase  of  wealth  ; 
Wealth  luxury,  and  luxury  excess; 
Excess  the  scrofulous  and  itchy  plague, 
That  seizes  first  the  opulont,  descends 
To  the  next  rank  contagious,  and  in  time 
Taints  downward  all  the  graduated  scale 
Of  order,  from  the  chariot  to  the  plough. 
The  rich,  and  they  that  have  an  arm  to  check 
The  licence  of  the  lowest  in  degree, 
Desert  their  office  ;   and  themselves,  intent 
On  pleasure,  haunt  the  capital,  and  thus 
To  all  the  violence  of  lawless  hands 
Resign  the  scenes  their  presence  might  protect. 
Authority  herself  not  seldom  sleeps, 
Though  resident,  and  witness  of  the  wrong. 
The  plump  convivial  parson  often  bears 
The  magisterial  sword  in  vain,  and  lays 
His  rev'rence  and  his  worship  both  to  rest 
On  the  same  cushion  of  habitual  sloth. 
Perhaps  timidity  restrains  his  arm  ; 
When  he  should  strike  he  trembles,  and  sets  free, 
Himself  enslav'd  by  terror  of  the  band, 
Tli'  audacious  convict  whom  he  dares  not  bind. 
Perh  ;ps,  though  by  profession  ghostly  pure, 
He  too  may  have  his  vice,  and  sometimes  prove 
Less  dainty  than  becomes  his  grave  outside 
In  lucrative  concerns.     Examine  well 
His  milk  white  hand  ;  the  palm  is  hardly  clean- 
But  nere  and  there  an  ugly  smutch  appears. 
Foh  !  'twas  a  bribe  tbat  left  it :  he  has  touch'd 
Corruption.     Whoso  seeks  an  audit  here 


THE    •WrUTEK    EVENTNO.  247 

Propitious,  pays  his  tribute,  game  or  fish, 
\Vihl  fowl  or  ven 'son  ;  and  his  errand  speeds. 

But  faster  far,  and  move  th  in  all  the  rest, 
A  noble  cause,  \vhi  h  none,  who  bt-.irs  a  spark 
Of  public  virtue,  ever  wish'd  remov'd, 
\Vorks  the  deplor'd  .in. I  mischievous  effect. 
'T  is  universal  soldieiship  has  stabb'd 
The  In-art  of  merit  in  the  meaner  class. 
Arms,  through  the  vanity  and  brainless  rage 
Of  those  that  bear  them,  in  whatever  cause 
Seem  most  at  variance  with  all  moral  £>ood, 
And  incompatible  with  serious  thought. 
The  clown,  the  child  of  nature,  without  guile, 
Blest  with  an  infant's  ignorance  of  all 
But  his  own  simple  pleasures  ;  now  and  then 
A  wrestling    match,  a  foot-race,  or  a  fair  ; 
Is  ballotted,  and  trembles  at  the  news: 
Sheepish  he  doffs  his  hat,  and  mumbling  swears 
A  bible  oath  to  be  whate'er  they  please, 
To  do  he  knows  not  what.     The  task  perform'd, 
That  instant  he  becomes  the  sergeant's  care, 
His  pupil,  and  his  torment  and  his  jest. 
His  awkward  gait,  his  introverted  toes, 
Bent  knees,  round  shoulders,  and  dejected  looks, 
Procure  him  many  a  curse.     By  slow  degrees, 
Unapt  to  learn,  and  form'd  of  stubborn  stuff, 
He  yet  by  slow  degrees  puts  off  himself, 
Grows  conscious  of  a  change,  and  likes  it  well : 
He  stands  erect;  his  slouch  becomes  a  walk; 
He  steps  right  onward,  martial  in  his  air, 
His  form,  and  movement ;  is  as  smart  above 
As  meal  and  larded  locks  can  make  him  ;  wears 
His  hat,  or  his  plum'd  helmet,  with  a  grace  ; 
And,  his  three  years  of  heroship  expir'd, 
Returns  indignant  to  the  slighted  plough. 
He  hates  the  field,  in  which  no  fife  or  drum 
Attends  him  ;  drives  his  cattle  to  a  march  ; 
And  sighs  for  the  smart  comrades  he  has  left, 
'Twere  well  if  his  exterior  change  were  all — 
But  with  his  clumsy  port  the  wretch  has  lost 
His  igno.ance  and  harmless  manners  too 
To  swear,  to  game,  to  drink  ;  to  show  at  home 
By  lewdness,  idleness,  and  sabbc.th-breach, 
The  great  proficiency  he  made  abroad  ; 
T'asionish  and  to  grieve  his  gazing  friends, 
To  break  some  maiden's  and  his  motner's  heart  | 
To  be  a  pest  where  he  was  useful  once  ; 
Are  his  sole  aim,  and  all  his  glory,  now. 

Man  in  society  is  like  a  flow'r 


248  THE   TASK. 

Blown  in  its  native  bed  ;  'tis  there  alone 

His  faculties,  expanded  in  full  bloom, 

Shine  out ;  there  only  reach  their  proper  use. 

But  man,  associated  and  le  igu'd  wiih  man 

By  regal  warrant,  or  self-join'd  by  b  nd 

FOL-  int'rest-sake,  or  swarming  into  clans 

Beneath  one  head,  for  purposes  of  war, 

Like  flow'rs  selected  from  the  rest,  and  bound 

And  bundled  close  to  fill  some  crowded  vase, 

Fades  rapidly,  and,  by  compression  marr'd, 

Contracts  defilement  not  to  be  endur'd. 

Hence  charterd  boroughs  are  such  public  plagueb  j 

And  burghers,  men  immaculate  perhaps 

In  all  their  private  functions,  once  combin'd, 

Become  a  loathsome  body,  only  fit 

For  dissolution,  hurtful  to  the  main. 

Hence  merchants,  unimpeachable  of  sin 

Against  the  charities  of  domestic  life, 

Incorporated,  seem  at  once  to  lose 

Tiieir  nature  ;  and,  disclaiming  all  regard 

For  me.-cy  and  the  common  rights  of  man, 

Build  factories  with  blood,  conducting  trade 

At  the  sword's  point,  and  dyeing  the  white  robe 

Ot  innocent  commercial  Justice  red. 

Hence  too  the  field  of  glory,  as  the  world 

Misdeems  it,  dazzled  by  its  bright  array, 

With  all  its  majesty  of  thund'nng  pomp, 

Enchanting  music  and  immortal  wreaths, 

Is  but  a  school,  where  thoughtle  sness  is  taught 

On  principle,  where  foppery  atones 

For  tolly,  gallantry  for  ev'ry  vice. 

But  slighted  as  it  is,  and  by  the  great 
Abandon'd,  and,  which  still  I  more  regret, 
Infected  with  the  manners  and  the  modes 
It  knew  not  once,  the  country  wins  me  still. 
I  never  fram'd  a  wish,  or  form'd  a  plan, 
Thfit  ttatter'd  me  with  hopes  of  earthly  blias, 
But  there  I  laid  the  scene.     There  early  stray'd 
My  fancy,  ere  yet  liberty  of  choice 
Had  found  me,  or  the  hope  of  being  free. 
My  very  dreams  were  rural  ;  rural  too 
The  first-born  efforts  of  my  youthful  muse, 
Sportive  and  jinghng  her  poetic  bells, 
Ere  yet  her  ear  was  mistress  of  their  pow'rs. 
No  bard  could  please  me  but  whose  lyre  was  tun'd 
To  Nature's  praises.     Heroes  and  their  feats 
Fatigu'd  me,  never  weary  of  the  pipe 
Of  Tityrus,  assembling,  as  he  sang, 
The  rustic  throng  beneath  his  fav'rite  beech. 


THE    WINTER    EVENING.  249 

Then  Milton  had  indeed  a  poet's  charms: 

New  to  my  taste  his  Paradise  surpass'd 

The  struggling  efforts  of  icy  boyish  tongue, 

To  speak  us  excellence.      I  danc'd  lor  joy. 

1  marveilM  much,  that,  at  so  ripe  an  age 

As  tw.ce  seven  years,  his  neauties  had  then  first 

Engag'u  my  wonder;  and  admiring  still, 

And  still  admiring,  with  regret  suppos'd 

T!K-  joy  half  lost,  because  not  sooner  found. 

There  too  enamor'd  of  the  life  I  lov'd, 

Pathetic  in  its  praise,  in  its  pursuit 

Di  teiimn'd,  and  possessing  it  at  last 

\Vuh  transports,  such  as  favor'd  lovers  feel, 

I  studied,  priz'd,  and  wish'd  thac  1  had  known 

Ingenious  Cowley  !  and,  though  now  reclaim'd 

By  modern  lights  from  an  erroneous  taste, 

I  cannot  but  lament  thy  splendid  wit 

Entangled  in  the  cobwebs  of  the  schools. 

I  s'ill  revere  thee,  courtly  though  retir'd ! 

Though  stretch'd  at  ease  in  Chertsey's  silent  bow'rs. 

Not  unemploy'd  ;   and  rinding  rich  amends 

For  a  lost  world  in  solitude  and  verse. 

'Tis  born  with  all :   the  love  of  Nature's  works 

Is  an  ingredient  in  the  compound  man 

Infus'c?  at  the  creation  of  the  kind. 

And,  though  th' Almighty  Maker  has  throughout 

Discriminated  each  from  each,  by  strokes 

And  touches  of  his  hand,  with  so  much  art 

Diversified,  that  two  were  never  found 

Twins  at  all  points — yet  this  obtains  in  all, 

That  all  discern  a  beauty  in  his  works, 

And  all  can  taste  them  :  minds,  that  have  been  fona'd 

And  tutor' d,  with  a  relish  more  exact, 

But  none  without  some  relish,  none  unmov'd. 

It  is  a  Hdine,  that  dies  not  even  there, 

W  here  nothing  feeds  it :   neither  business,  crowds, 

Nor  habits  of  luxurious  city-life, 

Whatever  else  they  smother  of  true  wor^h 

In  human  bosoms,  quench  it  or  abate. 

The  villas  with  which  London  stands  begirt, 

Like  a  .swarth  Indian,  with  his  belt  of  beads, 

Piov?  it.     A  breath  of  unadult'rate  air, 

The  glimpse  of  a  green  pasture,  how  they  cheer 

1  he  citizen,  and  brace  his  languid  frame! 

K'en  in  the  stifling  bosom  ol  the  town 

A  garden,  in  which  nothing  thrives,  has  charms, 

That  soothe  the  rich  possessor  ;   much  consol'd, 

That  Here  and  theie  so;r:e  sprigs  ot  mournful  mint, 

Of  nightshade,  01  valerian,  grace  the  well 


250  THE    TASK. 

Tie  cultivates.     These  serve  him  with  a  hint, 

That  Nature  lives  ;   that  sight-refreshing  green 

Is  still  the  liv'ry  she  delights  to  wear, 

Though  sickly  samples  of  th'exuh'rant  whole. 

What  are  the  casements  lia'd  with  creeping  herbs., 

The  prouder  sashes  fronted  with  a  range 

Of  orange,  myrtle,  or  the  fragrant  weed, 

The  Frenchman's  darling?  are  they  not  all  proofs, 

That  man,  imrriur'd  in  cities,  still  retains 

His  inborn  inextinguishable  thirst 

Of  rural  scenes,  compensating  his  loss 

By  supplemental  shifts,  the  best  he  may? 

The  most  unfurnish'd  with  the  means  of  life, 

And  they,  that  never  pass  their  brick-wall  bounds, 

To  range  the  fields,  and  treat  their  lungs  with  air, 

Yet  feel  the  burning  instinct  :  over  head 

Suspend  their  crazy  boxes,  planted  thick 

And  water'd  duly.     Tliere  the  pitcher  stands 

A  fragment,  and  the  spoutless  tea-pot  there  ; 

Sad  witnesses  how  close-pent  man  regrets 

The  country,  with  what  ardor  he  contrives 

A  peep  at  Nature,  when  he  can  no  more. 

Hail,  therefore,  patroness  of  health  and  ease, 
And  contemplation,  heart-consoling  joys, 
And  harmless  pleasures,  in  the  throng'd  abode 
Of  multitudes  unknown  ;  hail,  rural  life! 
Address  himself  who  will  to  the  pursuit 
Of  honors,  or  emolument,  or  fame; 
I  shall  not  add  myself  to  such  a  chase, 
Thwart  his  attempts,  or  envy  his  success. 
Some  must  be  great.     Great  offices  will  have 
Great  taien.s.     And  God  gives  to  ev'ry  man 
The  virtue,  temper,  understanding,  taste, 
That  lifts  him  into  life,  and  lets  him  fall 
Just  in  the  niche  he  was  ordam'd  to  fill. 
To  the  deliv'rer  of  an  injur'd  land 
He  gives  a  tongue  t'  enlarge  upon,  a  heart 
To  feel,  and  courage  to  redress  her  wrongs; 
To  monarchs  dignity  ;  to  judges  sense  ; 
To  artists  ingenuity  and  skill; 
To  me,  an  unambitious  mind,  content 
In  the  low  vale  of  life,  that  early  felt 
A  wish  for  ease  and  leisure,  and  ere  long 
Found  here  that  leisure,  and  that  ease  1  wish'd. 

*  Mignonnette. 


THE  TASK. 

BOOK  V. 


THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  FIFTH  BOOK. 

A  frosty  morning — The  foddering  of  cattle. — The  woodman  and  his  dog. 
— The  poultry.—  Whimsical  effects  of  frost  at  a  waterfall. — The  Empress 
of  Russia's  palace  of  ice. — Amusements  of  munarchs. — War,  one  of  them. 
— Wars,  whence; — And  whence  monarchy. — The  evils  of  it. — English  and 
French  loyalty  contrasted. — The  Bastile,  and  a  prisoner  there. — Liberty 
the  chief  recommendation  of  this  country. — Modern  patriotism  question- 
able, and  why. — The  perishable  nature  of  the  best  human  institutions.— 
Spiritual  liberty  not  perishable. — The  slavish  state  of  man  by  nature. — 
Deliver  him.  Deist,  if  you  can.— Grace  must  do  it.— The  respective  me- 
rits of  patriots  and  martyrs  stated.— Their  different  treatment.— Happy 
freedom  oftlie  man  whom  grace  makes  free. — His  relish  of  the  works  ol 
God. — Address  to  the  Creator. 

T  is  morning  ;  and  the  sun,  with  ruddy  orb 
Ascending,  fires  th'  horison  ;  while  the  clouds, 
That  crowd  away  before  the  driving  wind, 
More  ardent  as  the  disk  emerges  more, 
Resemble  most  some  city  in  a  blaze, 
Seen  through  the  leafless  wood.     His  slanting  ray 
Slides  ineffectual  down  the  snowy  vale, 
And,  tingeing  all  with  his  own  rosy  hue, 
From  ev'ry  heib  and  ev'ry  spiry  blade 
Stretches  a  length  of  shadow  o'er  the  field. 
Mine,  spindling  into  longitude  immense, 
In  spite  of  gravity,  and  sage  remark 
That  I  myself  am  but  a  fleeting  shade, 
Piovokes  me  te  a  smile.     \Vith  eye  askance 
I  view  the  muscula-r  proportion'd  linib 
Transform' d  to  a  lean  shank.    The  shapeless  pair, 
As  they  desigu'd  to  mock  me,  at  my  side 
Take  step  for  step  ;  and,  as  I  near  approach 
The  cottage,  walk  along  the  plaster'd  wall, 
Prepost'rous  sight !  the  legs  without  the  man. 


252  THE    TASK. 

The  verdure  of  the  plain  lies  buried  deep 
Beneath  the  dazzling  deluge  ;  and  the  bents, 
And  coarser  grass,  upspearing  o  er  the  rest, 
Of  late  unsightly  and  unseen,  ii"W  shine 
Conspicuous,  and  in  bright  apparel  clad, 
And,  rledg'd  with  icy  feathers,  noa  superb. 
The  cattle    mourn  in  corners,  where  the  fence 
Screens  them,  and  seem  half  petrified  t<»  sleep 
In  unrecumbent  sadness.     There  they  wait 
Their  wonted  fodder;  not  like  hung'ring  man, 
Fretful  if  unsupplied  ,  but  silent,  meek, 
And  patient  of  the  slow-pac'd  swain's  delay. 
He  fiom  the  stack  carves  out  th' accustom'd  load, 
Deep -plunging,  and  again  deep -plunging  oft, 
His  broad  keen  knife  into  the  solid  mass : 
Smooth  as  a  wall  the  upright  remnant  stands, 
"With  such  undeviating  and  even  force 
He  severs  it  away:   no  needless  care, 
Lest  storms  should  overset  the  leaning  pile 
Deciduous,  or  its  own  unbalanc'd  weight. 
Forth  goes  the  woodman,  leaving  unconcern'd 
The  cheerful  haunts  of  man  ;   to  wield  ihe  i.xe, 
And  drive  tne  wedge,  in  yonder  forest  drear, 
From  morn  to  eve  his  solitary  task. 
Shaggy,  and  lean,  and  shrewd,  with  pointed  ears 
And  tail  cropp'd  short,  half  lurcher  and  half  cur, 
His  dog  attends  him.     Close  behind  his  heel 
Now  creeps  he  slow  ;  and  now,  with  many  a  frisk 
\Vide-scamp'ring,  snatches  up  the  drifted  sn^w 
With  iv'ry  teeth,  or  ploughs  it  with  his  snout  ; 
Then  shakes  his  powder' d  coat,  and  barks  for  joy. 
Heedless  of  all  his  pranks,  the  sturdy  churl 
Moves  right  toward  the  mark  ;  nor  stops  for  aught, 
But  now  and  then  with  pressure  of  his  thumb 
T'  adjust  the  fragrant  charge  of  a  short  tube, 
That  fumes  beneath  his  nose:   the  trailing  cloud 
Streams  far  behind  him,  scenting  all  the  air. 
Mow  from  the  roost,  or  from  the  neighb'ring  pa"1-^ 
\V  here,  diligent  to  catch  the  first  faint  gleam 
Of  smiling  day,  they  gossip'd  side  by  aide, 
Come  trowing  at  the  housewife's  well-known  call 
The  feaiher'd  tribes  domestic.      Half  on  wing, 
And  half  on  foot,  they  brush  the  fleecy  Hood, 
Conscious  and  fearful  of  too  deep  a  plunge. 
Tne  sparrows  peep,  anil  quit  the  shelt'nng  eavc<, 
To  seize  the  fair  occasion ;  well  they  eye 
The  scatter'd  grain,  and  thievishly  resolv'd 
T'  escape  th'  impending  famine,  often  scax'd 
As  oft  return,  a  uert  voracious  kaid. 


THE    WINTER    MORNING   WALK.  263 

Clean  riddance  quickly  made,  one  only  care 

Remains  to  each,  the  search  of  sunny  nook, 

Or  shed  impervious  to  the  blast.     Resign'd 

To  sad  necessity,  the  cock  forgoes 

His  wonted  strut;  and,  wading  at  their  head 

With  well  consider'd  steps,  seems  to  resent 

Hisalter'd  gait  and  stateliness  retrenched. 

How  find  the  myriads,  that  in  summer  cheer 

The  uills  and  valleys  with  their  ceaseless  songs, 

Due  sustenance,  or  where  suhsist  they  now  ? 

Earth  yields  them  nought ;  th'  imprison'd  worm  is  safe 

Beneath  the  frozen  clod  ;  all  seeds  of  herbs 

Lie  cover' d  close  ;  and  berry- bearing  thorns, 

Tnat  feed  the  thrush,  (whatever  some  suppose) 

Afford  the  smaller  minstrels  no  supply. 

The  long  protracted  rigor  of  the  year 

Thins  all  clieir  num'rous  flocks.      In  chinks  and  holes 

Ten  thousand  seek  an  unmolested  end, 

As  instinct  prompts  ;  self- buried  ere  they  die. 

The  very  rooks  and  daws  forsake  the  fields, 

Where  neither  grub,  nor  root,  nor  earth-nut,  now 

Repays  their  labor  more ;  and  perch 'd  aloft 

By  tn'e  wayside,  or  stalking  in  the  path, 

Lean  pensioners  upon  the  crav'llers  track, 

Pick  up  their  nauseous  dole,  though  sweet  to  them, 

Of  voided  pulse  or  half-digested  grain. 

The  streams  are  lost  amid  the  splendid  blank, 

O'erwhelming  all  distinction.     On  the  Hood, 

Indurated  and  fix'd,  the  snowy  weight 

Lies  undissolv'd  ;  while  silently  beneath, 

And  unperceiv'd,  the  current  steals  away. 

Not  so  where,  scornful  of  a  check,  it  leaps 

The  inilldam,  dashes  on  the  restless  wheel, 

And  wantons  in  the  pebbly  gulf  below  : 

No  frost  can  hind  it  there ;  its  utmost  force 

Can  but  arrest  the  light  and  smoky  mist, 

That  in  its  fall  the  liquid  sheet  throws  wide. 

And  see  where  it  has  hung  th'  embroider' d  banks 

With  forms  so  various,  that  no  pow'rs  of  art, 

The  pencil  or  the  pen,  may  trace  the  scene! 

Here  glitt'ring  turrets  rise,  upbearing  high 

(Fantastic  disarrangements!)   on  the  roof 

Large  growth  of  what  may  seem  the  sparkling  ttves 

And  shrubs  of  fairy  land.     The  crystal  drops, 

That  trickle  down  the  branches,  fast  eongeai'd, 

Shoot  into  pillars  of  pellucid  length, 

And  prop  tiie  pile  they  but  adorn'd  before. 

Here  grotto  within  grotto  safe  defies 

sunbeam ;  there,  emboss'd  and  fretted  wild, 


254  THE   TASK. 

The  growing  wonder  takes  a  thousand  shapes 

Capricious,  in  which  fancy  seeks  in  vain 

The  likeness  of  some  object  seen  before. 

Thus  Nature  works  as  if  to  muck  at  Arc, 

And  in  defiance  of  her  rival  pow'is; 

By  these  fortuitous  and  random  strokes 

Performing  such  inimitable  feats, 

As  she  with  all  her  rules  can  never  reach. 

Less  worthy  of  applause,  though  more  adm.r'd, 

Because  a  novelty,  the  work  of  man, 

Imperial  mistress  of  the  fur-clad  Ituss, 

Tiiy  most  magnificent  and  mighty  lieak, 

The  wonder  oi  the  Noith.     JNo  forest  fell, 

\Yhen  thou  would'st  iiuiid  ;  no  quarry  sent  its  stores 

1"  enrich  thy  walls  :    but  tliuu  didst  lu,w  the  Hood  . 

And  make  thy  marble  of  the  glassy  wa\e. 

lii  such  a  palace  Aiistaeus  found 

Cyrene,  when  he  bore  the  plaintive  tala 

Of  his  lost  bees  to  her  maternal  ear: 

In  such  a  palace  Poetry  might  place 

The  armory  of  Winter ;  where  his  troops, 

The  gloomy  clouds,  find  weapons,  arrowy  sleet, 

Skin-piercing  volley,  blossom-bruising  hail, 

And  snow,  that  often  blinds  the  travelers  course, 

And  wraps  him  in  an  unexpected  tomb. 

Silently  as  a  dream  the  fabric  rose ; 

No  sound  of  han.rr'.er  or  of  saw  was  there  : 

Ice  upon  ice,  the  well-adjusted  parts 

\Vere  soon  conjoined,  nor  other  cement  ask'd 

Than  water  mterfus'd  to  make  thtrn  one. 

Lamps  gracefully  dispos'd,  and  of  all  hues, 

Illumin'd  ev'ry  side:  a  wat'ry  light 

G learn' d  through  the  clear  transparency,  that  seem'd 

Another  moon  new-ris-en,  or  meteor  i'aU'n 

From  Heav'n  to  Earth,  oi  lambent  Maine  serene. 

So  stood  the  brittle  prodigy;   the  ugh  smooth 

And  slipp'iy  the  materials,  yet  frostbound 

Firm  as  a  rock.     Nor  wanted  aught  within, 

Their  royal  residence  might  well  befit, 

For  grandeur  or  for  use.     Long  wavy  wreaths 

Of  tiow'rs,  that  fear'd  no  enemy  but  warmth, 

Blush'd  on  the  panels.     Mirror  needed  none 

\Vhere  all  was  vitreous  ;  but  in  order  due 

Convivial  table  and  commodious  seat 

(What  seem'd  at  least  commodious  seat)  were  there? 

Sofa,  and  couch,  and  high-built  throne  august. 

The  same  lubiicity  was  found  in  all, 

And  all  was  moist  to  the  waim  touch  , 

Of  evanescent  glory,  once  a  sueam, 


THE    WINTER    MORNING    WALK.  255 


And  soon  to  slide  into  a  stream  asr 

Alas  !    't  was  hut  a  mo  'tifying  stroke 

Of  nnde*i<jn'd  severity,  that  glanc'd 

(Made  by  a  monarch)  on  her  own  estate 

On  human  ^randi'iir  and  the  courts  of  kings. 

*T  was  tr  ancient  in  its  nature,  as  in  sVuw 

'T  was  durahle  ;  as  worthless,  as  it  seem'd 

Intrinsi  'ally  precious;   to  the  foot 

Treach'rous  and  false  ;  it  smil'd,  and  it  was  cold. 

Great  princes  have  great  playthings.      Some  have 
At  hewi-ig  mount  tins  into  men,  and  some 
At  building  human  wonders  mountain-high. 
Some  have  amus'd  the  dull,  sad  years  of  life, 
(Lite  spent  in  indolence,  and  therefore  sad) 
With  schemes  of  monumental  fame;   and  sought 
By  pyramids  and  mausolean  pomp, 
Short-liv'd  themselves,  t'  immortalize  their  bones. 
Some  seek  diversion  in  the  tented  field, 
And  make  the  sorrows  of  mankind  their  sport. 
But  war's  a  gamj^jvluch^jvere  their  subjects  wise. 
Kings  would  jjpt  play  at.     Nations  wo  ul.  I  do  well 
T'  extort  their  truncheons  from  trre-prrrry  hands 
Of  heroes,  whose  infirm  and  baby  minds 
Are  gratified  with  mischief;  and  who  spoil, 
Because  men  suffer  it,  their  toy  the  World. 

When  Babel  was  confounded,  and  the  great 
Confed'racy  of  projectors  wild  and  vain 
Was  split  into  diversity  of  tongues, 
Then,  as  a  shepherd  separates  his  flock, 
The-;e  to  the  upland,  to  the  valley  those, 
God  drave  asunder,  and  assign'd  their  lot 
To  all  the  nations.     Ample  was  the  boon 
He  gave  them,  in  its  distribution  fair 
And  equal  ;  and  he  bade  them  dwell  in  peace. 
Peace  was  a  while  their  care  ;   they  plough'd  and 
And  reap'd  their  plenty  without  grudge  or  strife. 
But  violence  can  never  longer  sleep, 
Tiian  human  passions  please.      In  ev'ry  heart 
Are  sown  the  sparks,  that  kindle  fiery  w,ir  ; 
Occasion  needs  but  fan  them,  and  they  blaze 
Cain  had  already  shed  a  brother's  blood  : 
The  deluge  wash'd  ic  out;  but  left  unquench'd 
The  seeds  of  murder  in  the  breast  of  man. 
Soon  by  a  righteous  judgment  in  the  Hue 
Of  his  descending  progeny  was  found 
The  first  artificer  of  death  ;  the  shrewd 
Contriver,  who  first  sweated  at  the  forge, 
And  forc'd  the  blunt  and  yet  unbloodied  steel 
To  a  keen  ed^e,  and  made  it  bright  tor  war. 


256  THE   TASK. 

Him,  Tubal  nam'd,  the  Vulcan  of  old  times, 

The  sword  and  falchion  their  inventor  claim  ; 

And  the  first  smith  was  the  firsr  murd'rer's  son. 

His  art  surviv'd  the  waters  ;  and  ere  long, 

When  man  was  multiplied  and  spread  abroad 

In  tribes  and  clans,  and  had  begun  to  call 

These  meadows  and  lhat  range  of  hills  his  own, 

The  tasted  sweets  of  property  begat 

Desire  of  more,  and  industry  in  some, 

T'  improve  and  cultivate  their  just  demesne, 

Made  others  covet  what  they  saw  so  fair. 

Thus  war  began  on  earth  :  these  fought  for  spoil, 

And  those  in  self-defence.     Savage  at  first 

The1  onset,  and  irregular.     At  length 

One  eminent  above  the  rest  for  strength, 

For  stratagem,  for  courage,  or  fjr  all, 

Was  chos'n  leader;  him  they  serv'd  in  war, 

And  him  in  peace,  for  sake  of  warlike  deeds 

Reverenc'd  no  less.     Who  could  with  him  compare! 

Or  who  so  worthy  to  control  themselves, 

As  he,  whose  prowess  had  subdu'd  their  foes? 

Thus  war,  affording  field  for  the  display 

Of  virtue,  made  one  chief,  whom  times  of  peace, 

Which  have  their  exigencies  too,  and  call 

For  skill  in  government,  at  length  made  king. 

King  was  a  name  too  proud  for  man  to  wear 

With  modesty  and  meekness  ;  and  the  crown, 

So  dazzling  in  their  eyes,  who  set  it  on, 

Was  sure  t' intoxicate  the  brows  it  bound. 

It  is  the  abject  property  of  most, 

That,  being  parcel  of  the  common  mass, 

And  destitute  of  means  to  raise  themselves, 

They  sink,  and  settle  lower  than  they  need. 

They  know  not  what  it  is  to  feel  within 

A  comprehensive  faculty,  that  grasps 

Great  purposes  with  ease,  that  turns  and  wields, 

Almost  without  an  effort,  plans  too  vast 

For  their  conception,  which  they  cannot  move 

Conscious  of  impotence  they  soon  grow  drunk 

With  gazing,  when  they  see  an  able  man 

Step  forth  to  notice  :  and,  besotted  thus, 

Build  him  a  pedestal,  and  say,  '  Stand  there, 

And  be  our  admiration  and  our  praise.' 

They  roll  themselves  before  him  in  the  dust, 

Then  most  deserving  in  their  own  account, 

When  most  extravagant  in  his  applause, 

As  if  exalting  him  thry  rais'd  themselves. 

Thus  by  degrees,  self-cheated  of  their  sound 

And  sober  judgment,  that  he  is  but  man, 


THE    WINTER    MORNING    WALK.  '25 1 

They  demideify  and  fume  him  so, 
Pliat  in  due  season  he  forgets  it  too. 
Inflated  and  astrut  with  self-conceit, 
He  gulps  the  windy  diet;  and  ere  Ion,?, 
Adopting  their  mistake,  profoundly  thinks 
The  World  WHS  made  in  vain,  if  not  for  him. 
Thenceforth  they  are  his  cattle:  drudges,  born 
To  bear  his  burthens,  drawing  in  his  gears, 
And  sweating  in  his  service,  his  caprice 
Becomes  the  soul,  that  animates  them  all. 
He  deems  a  thousand,  or  ten  thousand  lives, 
Spent  in  the  purchase  of  renown  for  him, 
An  easy  reck'ning  ;    and  they  think  the  same. 
Thus  kings  were  first  invented  and  thus  kings 
Were  burnish'd  into  heroes,  and  became 
The  arbiters  of  this  terraqueous  swamp  ; 
Storks  among  frogs,  that  have  but  croak'd  and  died. 
Strange,  that  such  folly,  as  lifts  bloated  man 
To  eminence  fit  only  for  a  god, 
Should  ever  ddvel  out  of  human  lips, 
E'en  in  tlie  cradled  weakness  of  the  World  ! 
Still  stranger  much,  that  when  at  length  mankind 
Had  reach'd  the  sinewy  firmness  of  their  youth, 
And  could  discriminate  and  argue  well 
On  subjects  more  mysterious,  they  were  yet 
Babes  in  the  cause  of  freedom,  and  should  fear 
And  quake  before  the  gods  themselves  had  made  : 
But  above  measure  strange,  that  neither  proof 
Of  sad  experience,  nor  examples  set 
By  some,  whose  patriot  virtue  has  prevail'd, 
Can  even  now,  when  they  are  grown  mature 
In  wisdom,  and  with  philosophic  deeds 
Familiar,  serve  t'emancipate  the  rest ! 
Such  dupes  are  men  to  custom,  and  so  prone 
To  rev'rence  what  is  ancient,  and  can  plead 
A  course  of  long  observance  for  its  use, 
That  even  servitude,  the  worst  of  ills, 
Because  deliver' d  down  from  sire  to  son, 
Is  kept  and  guarded  as  a  sacred  thing. 
But  is  it  fit,  or  can  it  bear  the  shock 
Of  rational  discussion,  that  a  man, 
Compounded  and  made  up  like  other  men 
Of  elements  tumultuous,  in  whom  lust 
And  folly  in  as  ample  measure  meet, 
As  in  the  bosoms  of  the  slaves  he  rules, 
Should  be  a  despot  absolute,  and  boast 
Himself  the  only  freeman  of  his  land  ? 
Should,  when  he  pleases,  and  on  whom  he  will, 
\Yage  war,  with  any  or  with  no  pretence 

z  2 


If 


258  TUE    TASK 

Of  provocation  giv'n,  or  wrong  sustain'd, 
And  force  the  beggarly  last  doit  by  means, 
That  his  own  humor  dictates,  from  the  clutch 
Of  Poverty,  that  thus  he  may  procure 
His  thousands,  weary  of  penurious  life 
A  splendid  opportunity  to  die  ? 
Say  ye,  who  (with  less  prudence  than  of  old 
Jotham  ascrib'd  to  his  assembled  trees 
In  politic  convention)  put  your  trust 
I'th'shadow  of  a  bramble,  and  reclin'd 
In  fancied  peace  beneath  his  dang'rous  branch, 
Rejoice  in  him,  and  celebrate  his  sway, 
Where  find  ye  passive  fortitude?   Whence  springs 
Your  self-denying  zeal,  that  holds  it  good, 
To  stroke  the  prickly  grievanct ,  and  to  hang 
His  thorns  with  streamers  of  continual  praise? 
We  too  are  friends  to  loyalty.     We  love 
The  king,  who  loves  the  law,  respects  his  bounds, 
And  reigns  content  within  them  :   him  we  serve 
Freely  and  with  delight,  who  leaves  us  free: 
But  recollecting  still,  that  he  is  man, 
WTe  trust  him  not  too  far.     King  though  he  be, 
And  king  in  England  too,  he  may  be  weak, 
And  vain  enough  to  be  ambitious  still ; 
May  exercise  amiss  his  proper  pow'rs, 
Or  covet  more  than  freemen  choose  to  grant : 
Beyond  that  mark  is  treason.      He  is  ours, 
'administer,  to  guard,  t'adorn.  the  state, 
But  not  to  warp  or  change  it.     We  are  his, 
To  serve  him  nobly  in  the  common  cause, 
True  to  the  death,  but  not  to  be  his  slaves. 
Mark  now  the  ditTrence,  ye  that  boast  your  love 
Of  kings,  between  your  loyalty  and  ours. 
We  love  the  man,  the  paltry  pageant  you  : 
We  the  chief  patron  of  the  commonwealth, 
You  the  regardless  author  of  its  woes  : 
We  for  the  sake  of  liberty  a  king, 
You  chains  and  bondage  for  a  tyrant's  sake. 
Our  love  is  principle,  and  has  its  root 
In  reason,  is  judicious,  manly,  free  ; 
Yours,  a  blind  instinct,  crouches  to  the  rod, 
And  licks  the  foot  that  treads  it  in  the  dust. 
Were  kingship  as  true  treasure  as  it  seems, 
Sterling,  and  worthy  of  a  wise  man's  wish, 
I  wou'd  not  be  a  king  to  be  belov'd 
Causeless,  and  daub'd  with  undiscerning  praise 
Where  love  is  mere  attachment  to  the  throne, 
Not  to  the  man,  who  rills  it  as  he  ought. 
Whose  freedom  is  by  suiFrance,  and  at  will 


THE    WINTER    MOANING    WALK  253 

Of  a  superior,  he  is  never  free. 

Who  lives,  and  is  not  weary  of  a  life 

Expos'd  to  manacles,  deserves  them  well. 

The  state,  that  strives  for  liberty,  though  foil'd, 

And  forc'd  to  abandon  what  she  bravely  sought, 

Deserves  at  least  applause  for  her  attempt, 

And  pity  for  her  loss.     But  that's  a  cause 

Not  often  unsuccessful :  pow'r  usurp'd 

Is  weakness  when  oppos'd  ;  conscious  of  wrong, 

'Tis  pusillanimous  and  prone  to  flight. 

But  s  aves,  that  once  conceive  the  glowing  thought 

Of  freedom,  in  that  hope  itself  possess 

All  that  the  contest  calls  for;  spirit,  strength, 

The  scorn  of  danger,  and  united  hearts; 

The  surest  presage  of  the  good  they  seek.* 

Then  shame  to  manhooa,  ana  opprobrious  more 

To  France  than  all  her  losses  and  defeats, 

Old  or  of  later  date,  by  sea  or  land, 

Her  house  of  bondage,  worse  thin  that  of  old 

Which  God  aveng'd  on  Pharaoh— the  Bastile. 

Ye  horrid  tow'rs,  th'abode  of  broken  hearts 

Ye  dungeons  and  ye  cages  of  despair, 

That  monarchs  have  supplied  from  age  to  age 

With  music,  such  as  suits  their  sov'reign  ears, 

The  sighs  and  groans  of  miserable  men ! 

There's  not  an  English  heart  that  would  not  leap 

To  hear  that  ye  were  fall'n  at  last ;  to  know 

That  e'en  our  enemies,  so  oft  employ'd 

lu  forging  chains  for  us,  themselves  were  free. 

For  he,  who  values  Liberty,  conlines 

His  zeal  for  her  predominance  within 

!No  narrow  bounds  ;  her  cause  engages  him 

Wherever  pleaded.     'Tis  the  cause  of  man. 

There  dwell  the  most  forlorn  of  humankind, 

Immur'd  though  unaccus'd,  condemn'd  untried, 

Cruelly  spar'd,  and  hopeless  of  escape. 

Tin-re,  like  the  visionary  emblem  seen 

By  him  of  Babylon,  life  stands  a  stump, 

And,  filletted  about  with  hoops  of  brass, 

Still  lives,  though  all  his  pleasant  boughs  are  gone. 

To  count  the  hour-bell  and  expect  no  change; 

And  ever,  as  the  sullen  sound  is  heard, 

Still  to  reflect,  that,  though  a  joyless  note 

To  him,  whose  moments  all  have  one  dull  pace, 

Ten  thousand  rovers  in  the  world  at  large 

*  The  author  hopes,  that  he  shall  not  be  censured  for  unnecessary 
warmth  upon  so  interesting  a  subject.  He  is  aware,  that  it  is  become  al- 
mo-t  l'ii-iuun..ble  to  stigmatize  such  sentiments  as  no  better  than  empty 

declamation  ;  but  it  ia  an  ill  symptom,  and  peculiar  to  modern  times. 


THE    TASK. 


Account  it  music;  that  it  summons  some 

To  theatre,  or  jocund  feast,  or  ball  ; 

The  wearied  hireling  finds  it  a  release 

From  labor  ;  and  the  lover,  who  has  chid 

Its  long  delay,  feels  ev'ry  welcome  stroke 

Upon  his  heart-strings,  trembling  with  delight  — 

To  fly  for  refuge  from  distracting  thought 

To  such  amusements  as  ingenious  woe 

Contrives,  hard-shifting,  and  without  her  tools  — 

To  read  engraven  on  the  mouldy  walls, 

In  stagg'ring  types,  his  predecessor's  tale, 

A  sad  memorial,  and  subjoin  his  own  — 

To  turn  purveyor  to  an  overgorg'd 

And  bloated  spider,  till  the  pamper'd  pest 

Is  made  familiar,  watches  his  approach, 

Comes  at  his  call,  and  serves  him  for  a  friend  — 

To  wear  out  time  in  numb'ring  to  an  fro 

The  studs,  that  thick  emboss  his  iron  door; 

Then  downward  and  then  upward,  then  aslant 

And  then  alternate  ;  with  a  sickly  hope 

By  dint  of  change  to  give  his  tasteless  task 

Some  relish  ;  till  the  sum,  exactly  found 

In  all  directions,  he  begins  again  — 

Oh  comfortless  existence  !  hemm'd  around 

With  woes,  which  who  that  suffers  would  not  kneel 

A  nd  beg  for  exile,  or  the  pangs  of  death? 

That  man  should  thus  encroach  on  fellow  man, 

Abridge  him  of  his  just  and  native  rights, 

Eradicate  him,  tear  him  from  his  hold 

Upon  th'endearments  of  domestic  life 

And  social,  nip  his  fruitfulness  and  use, 

And  doom  him  for  perhaps  a  heedless  word 

To  barrenness,  and  solitude,  and  tears, 

Moves  indignation,  nu.kes  the  name  of  king 

(Of  king  whom  such  prerogative  can  please) 

As  dreadful  as  the  Manichean  god. 

Ador'd  through  fear,  strong  only  to  destroy.  . 

'Tis  liberty  alone  that  gives  the  flow'r 
Of  fleeting  life  its  lustre  and  perfume  ; 
And  we  are  weeds  without  it.      All  constraint, 
Except  what  wisdom  lays  on  evil  men, 
Is  evil  :  hurts  the  faculties,  impedes 
Their  progress  in  the  road  of  science  ;  blinds 
The  eyesight  of  Discovery;  and  begets. 
In  those  that  suffer  it,  a  sordid  mind, 
Bestial,  a  meagre  intellect,  unfit 
To  be  the  tenant  of  man's  noble  form. 
Thee  therefore  still,  blameworthy  as  thou  art, 
With  ftll  thy  loss  of  empire,  and  though  squeez'd 


THE    WINTER    MORNING    WALK*  261 

By  public  exigence,  till  annual  food 

Fails  for  the  craving  hunger  of  the  state, 

Thee  I  account  still  happy,  and  the  chief 

Among  the  nations,  seeing  thou  art  tree  ; 

My  native  nook  of  earth  !  Thy  clime  is  rude, 

Replete  with  vapors,  and  disposes  much 

All  hearts  to  sadness,  and  none  more  than  mine: 

Thine  unadult'rate  manners  are  less  soft 

And  plausible  than  social  life  requires, 

And  thou  hast  need  of  discipline  and  art, 

To  give  thee  what  politer  France  receives 

From  nature's  bounty— that  humane  address 

And  sweetness,  without  which  no  pleasure  is 

In  converse,  either  starv'd  by  cold  resolve, 

Or  rlush'd  with  fierce  dispute,  a  senseless  brawl. 

Yet  being  free  I  love  thee  :  for  the  sake 

Of  that  one  feature  can  be  well  content, 

Disgrac'd  as  thou  hast  been,  poor  as  tbou  art, 

To  seek  no  sublunary  rest  beside. 

But,  once  enslav'd,  farewell !   I  could  endure 

Chains  no  where  patiently ;  and  chains  at  home, 

Where  I  am  free  by  birthright,  not  at  all. 

Then  what  were  left  of  roughness  in  the  grain 

Of  British  natures,  wanting  its  excuse 

That  it  belongs  to  freemen,  would  disgust 

And  shock  me.      I  should  then  with  double  pain 

Feel  all  the  rigor  of  thy  fickle  clime  ; 

And,  if  I  must  bewail  the  blessing  lost, 

For  which  our  Hampdens  and  our  Sidneys  bled, 

I  would  at  least  bewail  it  under  skies 

Milder,  among  a  people  less  austere  ; 

In  scenes,  which,  having  never  known  me  free, 

Would  not  reproach  me  with  the  loss  I  felt. 

Do  1  forebode  impossible  events, 

And  tremble  at  vain  dreams?    Heav'n  grant  I  may) 

But  th'age  of  virtuous  politics  is  past, 

And  we  are  deep  in  that  of  cold  pretence. 

Patriots  are  grown  too  shrewd  to  be  sincere, 

Ami  we  too  wise  to  trust  them.     He  that  takes 

Deep  in  his  soft  credulitj'  vhe  stamp 

Design'd  by  loud  declaimers  on  the  part 

Of  liberty,  themselves  the  slaves  of  lust, 

Incurs  derision  for  his  easy  *aith, 

And  lack  of  knowledge,  ana  *   *h  cause  enough: 

For  when  was  public  virtue  to  be  found. 

Where  private  was  not  ?   Can  he  love  the  whole, 

Who  loves  no  part  ?   He  be  a  nation's  friend, 

Who  is  in  truth  the  friend  of  no  man  there? 

Can  lie  be  strenuous  in  his  country's  cause, 


fl 

262  THE    TASK. 

Who  slights  the  charities,  for  whose  dear  sake 
That  country,  if  at  all,  must  be  belov'd  ? 

'Tis  therefore  sober  and  good  men  are  sad 
For  Eng!and's  gliry,  seeing  it  wax  pale 
And  sickly,  while  her  champions  wear  their  hearts 
So  lose  to  private  duty,  that  no  brain, 
Healthful  and  undisturb'd  by  factious  fumes, 
Can  dream  them  trusty  to  the  gen' nil  weal. 
Such  were  not  they  of  old,  whose  temper' d  blades 
Dispers'd  the  shacklt-s  of  usurp'd  control, 
And  hew'd  them  link  from  link  ;  then  Albion's  sons 
Were  sons  indeed  ;  they  felt  a  filial  heart 
Beat  high  within  them  at  a  mother's  wrongs; 
And,  shining  each  in  his  domestic  sphere, 
Shone  brighter  still,  once  call'd  to  public  view. 
'Tis  therefore  many,  whose  sequester'd  lot 
Forbids  their  interference,  looking  on, 
Anticipate  perforce  some  dire  event ; 
,    And,  seeing  the  old  casile  of  the  state, 

That  promis'd  once  more  firmness,  so  assail'd, 
That  all  its  temprst-beaten  turrets  sh;ike, 
Stand  motioidess  expectants  of  its  fall. 
All  has  its  date  below  ;   the  fatal  hour 
Wasregister'd  in  Heav'n  ere  time  began. 
We  turn  to  dust,  and  all  our  mightiest  works 
Die  too  :   the  deep  foundations  that  we  lay, 
Time  ploughs  them  up,  and  not  a  trace  remains 
We  build  with  wh  it  we  deem  eternal  rock  : 
A  distant  age  asks  where  the  fabric  stood ; 
And  in  the  dust,  sifted  and  search  d  in  vain, 
The  undiscoverable  secret  sleeps. 

But  there  is  yet  a  liberty,  unsung 
By  poets,  and  by  senators  unprais'd, 
Which  monarchs  cannot  grant,  nor  all  the  povv'rs 
Of  earth  and  hell  confed'rate  take  away: 
A  liberty,  which  persecution,  fraud, 
Oppression,  prisons,  have  no  pow'r  to  bind  ; 
Which  whoso  tastes  can  be  enslav'd  no    more. 
'Tis  liberty  of  he  irt  deriv'd  from  Heav'n, 
Bought  with  His  blood,  who  gave  it  to  mankind, 
And  seal'd  with  the  same  token.      It  is  held 
By  ch  irter,  and  that  charter  sanction'd  sure 
By  th'unimpeachable  and  awful  oath 
And  promise  of  a  God.      His  other  gifts 
All  bear  the  royal  stamp,  that  speaks  them  his. 
And  are  august ;    but  this  transcends  them  all. 
His  other  works,  the  visible  display 
Of  all-creating  energy  and  might, 
Are  grand  no  dou^t,  and  worthy  of  the  word, 


THE    WINTER    MORNING    WALK.  26,'! 

That,  finding  an  interminable  space 

Unoccupied,  has  fill'd  the  void  >o  well, 

And  made  so  sparkling  what  was  dark  before. 

But  these  are  not  hi.s  glory.     Man,  'tis  true, 

Sniit  with  the  beauty  of  so  fair  a  scene, 

Might  well  suppose  th 'artificer  divine 

Meant  it  eternal,  had  he  not  himself 

Pronounc'd  it  transient,  glorious  as  it  is, 

And,  still  designing  a  more  glorious  far, 

Doom'd  it  as  insufficient  for  his  praise. 

These  therefore  are  occasional,  and  pass  ; 

Fonn'd  for  the  confutation  of  the  fool, 

Whose  lying  heart  disputes  against,  a  God  ; 

That  office  serv'd,  they  must  be  swept  away. 

Not  so  the  labours  of  his  love  ;  they  shine 

In  other  heav'ns  than  th  jse  that  we  behold, 

And  fade  not.     There  is  Paradise  that  fears 

No  forfeiture,  and  of  its  fruits  he  sends 

Large  prelibation  oft  to  saints  below. 

Of  these  the  first  in  o.'der,  and  the  pledge, 

And  confident  assurance  of  the  rest, 

Is  liberty;  a  rlio-ht  into  his  arms, 

Ere  yet  mortality's  fine  threads  give  way, 

A  clear  escape  from  tyrannizing  lust, 

And  full  immunity  from  penal  woe. 

Chains  are  the  portion  of  revolted  man. 
Stripes,  and  a  dungeon  ;  and  his    body  serves 
The  triple  purpose.      In  that  sickly,  foul, 
Opprobrious  residence  he  finds  them  all. 
Propense  his  heart  to  idols,  he  is  held 
In  silly  dotage  on  created  things. 
Careless  of  their  Creator.     And  that  low 
And  sordid  gravitation  of  his  pow'rs 
To  a  vile  clod  so  draws  him,  wiih  such  force 
Resistless  from  the  centre  ne  should  seek, 
That  he  at  last  forgets  it.     All  his  hopes 
Tend  downward;  his  ambition  is  to  sink, 
To  reach  a  depth  profounder  still,  and  still 
Profounder,  in  the  fathomless  abyss 
Of  folly,  plunging  in  pursuit  of  death. 
But  ere  he  gain  the  comfortless  repose 
He  seeks,  and  acquiescence  of  his  soul 
In  Heav'n-renouncing  exile,  he  endures — 
\\hat  does  he  not,  from  lusts  oppos'd  in  vain, 
And  self-reproaching  conscience  ?      He  foresees 
The  fata!  issue  to  his  health,  fame,  peace, 
Fortune,  and  dignity;  the  loss  of  all 
That  can  ennoble  man,  and  make  frail  life. 
Short  as  it  is,  supportable.     Still  worse, 


264  THE    TASK. 

Far  worse  than  all  the  plagues,  with  which  his  sins 
Infect  his  happiest  moments,  he  foreb  ides 
Ages  of  hopeless  mis'ry.     Future  death, 
And  death  still  future.     Not  a  hasty  stroke, 
Like  that  which  sends  him  to  the  dusty  grave; 
But  unrepealable  enduring  death. 
Scripture  is  still  a  trumpet  to  his  fears: 
What  none  can  prove  a  forg'ry  may  be  true ; 
What  none  but  bad  men  wish  exploded  must. 
That  scruple  checks  him.     Riot  is  not  loud 
Nor  drunk  enough,  to  drown  it.      In  the  midst 
Of  laughter  his  compunctions  are  sincere; 
And  he  abhors  the  jest  by  which  he  shines. 
Remorse  begets  reform.      His  master-lust 
Falls  first  before  his  resolute  rebuke, 
And  seems  dethron'd  and  vanquish'd.   Peace  ensues, 
Hut  spurious  and  short-liv'd  ;  the  puny  child 
Of  self  congratulating  Pride,  begot 
On  fancied  Innocence.     Again  he  falls, 
ind  rights  again  ;   but  finds  his  best  essay 
A  presage  ominous,  portending  still 
Its  own  dishonor  by  a  worse  relapse 
Till  Nature,  unavailing  Nature,  foil'd 
S:)  oft,  and  wearied  in  the  vain  attempt, 
Scoffs  at  her  own  performance.     Reason  now 
Tak^s  part  with  appetite,  and  pleads  the  cause 
Perversely,  which  of  late  she  so  condemn 'd  ; 
With  shallow  shifts  and  old  devices,  worn 
And  tatter' d  in  the  service  of  debauch, 
Cov'ring  his  shame  from  his  offended  sight. 
Hath  God  indeed  giv'n  appetites  to  man, 
And  stor'd  the  earth  so  plenteously  with  means, 
To  gratify  the  hunger  of  his  wish  ; 
"  And  doth  he  reprobate,  and  will  he  damn 
The  use  of  his  own  bounty  ?   making  first 
So  frail  a  kind,  and  then  enacting  laws 
So  strict,  that  less  than  perfect  must  despair  ? 
Falsehood  !   which  whoso  but  suspects  of  truth 
Dishonors  God,  and  makes  a  slave  of  man. 
Do  they  themselves,  who  undertake  for  hire 
The  teacher's  office,  and  dispense  at  large 
Their  weekly  dole  of  edifying  strains, 
Attend  to  their  own  music  ?  have  they  faith 
In  what  wich  such  solemnity  of  tone 
And  gesture  they  propound  to  our  belief? 
Nay— conduct  hath  the  loudest  tongue.     The  vo.ce 
Is  but  an  instrument,  on  which  the  pr.     t 
May  p^ty  tfhat  tune  he  pleases.      In  the  deed, 
The  unequivocal,  authentic  deed. 


THE    WINTER    MORNING          '  !.K.  265 

We  find  sound  argument,  we  read  the  lie 

Su  -h  rras'nings  (if  th  it  name  must  needs  belong 

T' excuses  in  which  reason  IIMS  no  part) 

Serve  to  compose  a  spirit  well  inclin'd, 

To  live  on  terms  of  amity  with  vice, 

And  sin  without  disturbance.     Often  urg'd, 

(As  off  en  as  libidinous  disc>u-se 

Exhausted,  he  resorts  to  solemn  themes 

Of  theological  and  grave  import) 

They  gain  at  last  his  unreserv'd  assent; 

Till,  harden'd  his  heart's  temper  in  the  forge 

Of  lust,  and  on  the  anvil  of  despair, 

He  slights  the  strokes  of  conscience.     Nothing  move*, 

Or  nothing  much,  his  constancy  in  ill ; 

Vain  tamp'ring  has  but  foster'd  his  disease  ; 

'Tis  desp'rate,  and  he  sleeps  the  sleep  of  death. 

Haste  now,  philosopher,  and  set  him  free. 

Charm  the  deaf  serpent  wisely.     Make  him  hear 

Of  rectitude  and  fitness,  moral  truth 

How  lovely,  and  the  moral  sense  how  sure, 

Consulted  and  obey'd,  to  guide  his  steps 

Directly  to  the  first  and  only  fair. 

Spare  not  in  such  a  cause.     Spend  all  the  pow'rs 

Of  rant  and  rhapsody  in  virtue's  praise  : 

Be  most  sublimely  good,  verbosely  grand, 

And  with  poetic  trappings  grace  thy  prose, 

Till  it  outmantle  all  the  pride  of  verse. — 

Ah,  tinkling  cymbal,  and  high-sounding  brass, 

Smitten  in  vain  !  such  music  cannot  charm 

The  eclipse,  that  intercepts  truth's  heav'nly  beam, 

And  chills  and  darkens  a  wide-wand'ring  soul. 

The  still  small  voice  is  wanted.     He  must  speak, 

Whose  word  leaps  forth  at  once  to  its  effect ; 

Who  calls  for  things  that  are  not,  and  they  come. 
Grace  makes  the  slave  a  freeman.     'Tis  a  change, 

That  turns  to  ridicule  the  turgid  speech 

And  stately  tone  of  moralists,  who  boast, 

As  if,  like  him  of  fabulous  renown 

They  had  indeed  ability  to  smooth 

The  shag  of  savage  nature,  and  were  eacli 

An  Orpheus,  and  omnipotent  in  song: 

But  transformation  of  apostate  man 

From  fool  to  wise,  from  earthly  to  divine, 

Is  work  for  Him  that  made  him.      He  alone, 

And  he  by  means  in  philosophic  eves 

Trivial  and  worthy  of  disdain,  achieves 

The  wonder  ;  humanizing  what  is  brute 

In  the  lost  kind,  extracting  from  the  lips 

Of  asps  their  venom,  overpow'ring  strength 

2  A 


.-- 


466  THE    TASK. 

By  weakness,  and  hostility  by  love. 

Patriots  have  toii'd,  and  in  their  country's  cause 
Bled  nobly  ;  and  their  deeds,  as  Jiry  deserve, 
Receive  p'-oud  recompense.     We  give  in  charge 
Their  names  to  the  sweet  lyre.     Th' historic  muse, 
Proud  of  the  treasure,  marches  with  it  down 
To  latest  times ;  and  Sculpture,  in  her  turn, 
Gives  bond  in  stone  and  ever-during  briss 
To  guard  them,  and  t'immortalize  her  trust : 
But  fairer  wreaths  are  due,  though  never  paid, 
To  those,  who,  posted  at  the  shrine  of  Truth, 
1'ave  fall'n  in  her  defence.     A  patriot's  blood, 
Well  spent  in  such  a  strife,  may  earn  indeed, 
And  for  a  time  ensure,  to  his  lov'd  land 
The  sweets  of  liberty  and  equal  laws; 
But  martyrs  struggle  for  a  brighter  prize, 
And  win  it  with  more  pain.     Their  blood  is  shed 
In  confirmation  of  the  noblest  claim, 
Our  claim  to  feed  upon  immortal  truth, 
To  walk  with  God,  to  be  divinely  free, 
To  soar,  and  to  anticipate  the  skies. 
Yet  few  remember  them.     They  Jiv'd  unknown, 
Till  persecution  dragg'd  them  into  fame, 
And  chas'd  them  up  to  Heav'n.     Their  ashes  flew 
— No  marble  tells  us  whither.     With  their  names 
No  bard  embalms  and  sanctifies  his  song: 
And  history,  so  warm  on  meaner  themes, 
Is  cold  on  this.     She  execrates  indeed 
The  tyranny,  that  doom'd  them  to  the  fire, 
But  gives  the  glorious  suffrers  little  praise.* 

He  is  the  freeman,  whom  the  truth  makes  free, 
And  all  are  slaves  besides.     There's  not  a  chain, 
That  hellish  foes,  coni'ed'rate  for  his  harm, 
Can  wind  around  him.  but  he  c;>sts  it  ofl', 
W  ith  as  much  ease  as  Samson  his  green  withes. 
He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
Of  nature,  and  though  poor  perhaps,  compar'd 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight, 
Calls  the  delightful  scen'ry  all  his  own. 
His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  valleys  his, 
And  the  resplendent  rivers:  his  t'enjoy 
With  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel, 
But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspir'd 
Can  lift  to  Heav'n  an  unpresumptuous  tye, 
And  smiling  say — "  My  Father  made  them  alll" 
Are  they  not  his  by  a  peculiar  right, 
And  by  an  emphasis  of  int'rest  his, 

*  See  Hume. 


THE    WINTER    MORNING    WALK.  267 

Whose  eye  they  fill  with  tears  of  holy  joy, 

Whose  heart  with  praise,  and  whose  exalted  mind 

U'ith  wbrthy  thoughts  of  that  unwearied  love, 

Th.it  pi  um'd,  and  built,  and  still  upholds,  a  world 

So  cloth'd  with  beauty  1'or  rebellious  man  ? 

Yes — ye  may  rill  your  garners,  ye  that  reap 

The  loaded  soil,  and  ye  may  waste  much  good 

In  simsrlss  riot;   but  ye  will  not  find 

In  feast,  or  in  the  chase,  in  song  or  dance, 

A  liberty  like  his,  who,  unimpeach'd 

Of  usurpation,  and  to  no  man's  wrong, 

Appropriates  nature  as  his  Father's  work, 

And  has  a  richer  use  of  yours  than  you. 

He  is  indeed  a  freeman.      Free  by  birth 

Of  no  mean  city  ;  plann'd  or  ere  the  hills 

Were  built,  the  fountains  open'd,  or  the  sea 

With  all  his  roaring  multitude  of  waves. 

His  freedom  is  the  same  in  ev'ry  state; 

And  no  condition  of  this  changeful  life, 

So  manifold  in  cares,  whose  ev'ry  day 

Brings  its  own  evil  with  it,  makes  it  less  : 

For  he  has  wings,  th  it  neither  sickness,  pain, 

Nor  penury,  can  cripple  or  confine. 

No  nook  so  n.-rrovv  but  he  spreads  them  there 

With  ease,  and  is  at  large.      Th'oppressor  holds 

His  bo  ly  bouiKi,  but  knows  not  what  a  range 

His  spirit  takes  unconscious  of  a  chain  ; 

And  that  to  bind  him  is  a  vain  attempt, 

Whom  God  ilehglus  in,  and  in  whom  he  dwells. 

Acquaint  thyself  with  God,  if  thou  wouldst  taste 
His  works.      Admitted  once  to  his  embrace, 
Thou  shall  p  rceive  that  thou  wast  blind  before  : 
Thine  eye  shall  be  instructed  ;   and  thine  heart 
M  -lie  i>  i;-t  sh  til  relish,  with  divine  delight 
'Till  then  unfelt,  what  hands  divine  have  wrought. 
Brutes  graze  the  mountain-top,  with  faces  prone, 
And  eyes  intent  upon  the  scanty  herb 
It  yield-;  them  :   or,  recumbent  on  its  brow, 
Ruminate  heedless  of  the  scene  outspread 
Beneath,  beyond,  and  stretching  far  away 
From  inland  regions  to  the  distant  main. 
Man  views  it,  and  admires  ;   but  rests  content 
Wita  what  he  views.     The  landscape  has  his  praise 
But  not  its  Author.     Unconcer  r  j  who  form'd 
The  Paradise  he  sees,  he  finds  it  such, 
And,  such  well-pleas'd  to  find  it,  asks  no  more. 
Not  so  the  mind,  that,  has  been  touch'd  from  Heav'n, 
And  in  the  school  of  sacred  wisdom  taught, 
To  read  his  wonders,  in  whose  thought  the  World, 


268  TH£    TASK. 

Fair  as  it  is,  existed  ere  it  was. 

Not  for  its  own  sake  merely,  but  for  his 

Much  more,  who  fashion'd  it,  he  gives  it  praise; 

Praise  that  from  Earth  resulting,  as  it  ought, 

To  Earth's  acknowledg'd  Sov'reign,  finds  at  once 

Its  only  just  proprietor  in  Him, 

The  soul  that  sees  him,  or  receives  sublim'd 

New  faculties,  or  learns  at  least  t'employ 

More  worthily  the  pow'rs  she  own'd  before, 

Discerns  in  all  things  what,  with  stupid  gaze 

Of  ignorance,  till  then  she  overlook'd, 

A  ray  of  heavn'ly  light,  gilding  all  forms 

Terrestial  in  the  vast  and  the  minute  ; 

The  unambiguous  footsteps  of  the  God, 

Who  gives  its  lustre  to  an  insect's  wing, 

And  wheels  his  throne  upon  the  rolling  worlds. 

Mujh  conversant  with  Ileav'n,  she  often  holds 

With  those  fair  ministers  of  light  to  man, 

That  fill  the  skies  nightly  with  silent  pomp, 

Sweet  conference.      Inquires  what  strains  were  they 

With  which  Heav'n  rang,  when  ev'ry  star,  i\v  haste 

To  gratulate  the  new-created  Earth, 

Sent  forth  a  voice,    and  all  the  sons  of  God 

Shouted  for  joy.—"  Ti  11  me,  ye  shining  hosts, 

That  navigate  a  sea  that  knows  no  storms, 

Beneath  a  vault  unsullied  with  a  cloud, 

If  from  your  elevation,  whence  ye  view 

Distinctly  scenes  invisible  to  man, 

And  systems,  of  whose  birth  no  tidings  yet 

Have  reach' d  this  nether  world,  ye  spy  a  race 

Favcr'd  as  ours  ;  transgressors  from  the  womb, 

And  hasting  to  a  grave,  yet  doom'd  to  rise, 

And  to  possess  a  brighter  heav'n  than  yours  ? 

As  one,  who,  long  detain' d  on  foreign  shores, 

Pants  tr  return,  and  when  he  sees  afar 

His  country's  weather-bleach' d  and  batter'd  rocks, 

From  the  green  wave  emerging,  darts  an  eye 

Radiant  with  joy  towards  the  happy  land  ; 

So  I  with  animated  hopes  behold, 

And  many  an  aching  wish,  your  beamy  fires, 

That  show  like  beacons  in  the  blue  abyss, 

Ordain'd  to  guide  th'embodied  spirit  home 

From  toilsome  life  to  never-ending  rest. 

Loves  kindles  as  I  gaze.     I  feel  desires, 

That  give  assurance  of  their  own  success, 

And  that,  infus'd  from  Heav'n,  must  thither  tend.1' 

So  reads  he  nature,  whom  the  lamp  of  truth 
Illuminates.     Thy  lamp,  mysterious  Word! 
Which  whoso  sees  no  longer  wanders  lost, 


THE    WINTER    MORNING    WALK.  2t»9 

With  intellects  bema/'d  in  endless  doubt, 
But  runs  the  ro.id  of  wisdom.     Tliou  hast  built 
With  means,  that  were  not  till  by  thee  eiuploy'd, 
Worlds,  that  had  never  b'-en  hadst  thou  in  strength 
Been  less  or  less  benevolent  than  strong. 
They  are  thy  witnesses,  who  speak  thy  pow'r 
And  goodness  infinite,  but  speak  in  ears, 
That  hear  not,  or  receive  not  their  report. 
In  vain  thy  creatures  testify  of  thee, 
Till  thou  proclaim  thyself.     Theirs  is  indeed 
A  teaching  voice;   but  'tis  the  praise  of  thine, 
That  whom  it  teaches  it  makes  prompt  to  learn, 
And  with  the  boon  gives  talents  for  its  use. 
Till  thou  irt  heard,  imaginations  vain 
Possess  the  heart,  and  fables  false  as  Hell ; 
Yet,  deem'd  oracular,  lure  aown  to  death 
The  uniirorm'd  and  heedless  souls  of  men. 
We  give  to  chance,  blind  chance,  ourselves  as  blind, 
The  glory  of  thy  work  ;   which  yet  appears 
Perfect  and  unimpeachable  of  blame, 
Challenging  human  scrutiny,  and  piov'd 
7'hen  skilful  most  when  most  severely  judg'd. 
But  chance  is  not;  or  is  not  where  thou  reign 'st: 
Thy  providence  forbids  that  fickle  pow'r 
fit'  p.nv'r  she  be,  that  works  but  to  confound) 
To  mi::  her  wild  vagaries  with  thy  laws. 
Yet  thus  we  dote,  refusing  while  we  can 
Instructions,  and  inventing  to  ourselves 
Gods  such  as  guilt  makes  welcome  ;  gods  that  sleepi 
Or  disregard  our  follies,  or  that  sit 
Amus'd  spectators  of  this  bustling  stage. 
Thee  we  reject,  unable  tc  abi  !e 
Thy  purity,  till  pure  as  thou  art  pure, 
Made  such  by  thee,  we  love  thee  for  that  cause, 
For  which  we  shunn'd  and  hated  thee  before. 
Then  we  are  free.     Then  liberty,  like  day, 
Breaks  on  the  soul,  and  by  a  flash  from  Heav'n 
Fires  all  the  faculties  A'ith  glorious  joy. 
A  voice  is  heard,  that  mortal  ears  hear  not, 
Till  thou  hast  touch 'd  them  ;  'tis  the  voice  of  song, 
A  loud  Hosanna  sent  from  all  thy  works  ; 
Which  he  that  hears  it  with  a  shout  repeats, 
And  adds  his  rapture  to  the  gen'ral  praise. 
In  that  blest  moment  Nature,  throwing  wide 
Her  veil  opaque,  discloses  with  a  smile 
The  author  of  her  beauties,  who,  retir'd 
Behind  his  own  creation,  works  unseen 
By  the  impure,  and  hears  his  pow'r  denied. 
Thou  art  the  source  and  centre  of  all  minds, 

2  A  2 


270  THC    TASK. 

Their  only  point  of  rest,  eternal  Word! 
From  thee  departing  they  are  lost,  and  rove 
At  random  without  honor,  hope,  or  peace. 
From  thee  is  all,  that  soothes  the  life  of  man, 
His  liigh  endeavor,  and  his  glad  success, 
His  strength  to  suffer,  and  his  will  to  serve. 
But  O  thou  bounteous  Giver  of  all  good, 
Thou  art  of  all  thv  gifts  thyself  the  crown! 
Give  what  thou  canst,  without  thee  we  are  poor 
And  with  thee  rich,  take  what  thou  wilt  away 


271 


THE  TASK. 

BOOK  VI. 
THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


ARGUMENT  OF  THE  SIXTH  BOOK. 

Bells  a:  a  distance. — Their  effect. — A  fine  noon  in  winter.— A  shelterea 
walk. — Meditation  better  than  books. — Our  familiarity  with  the  course  of 
nature  makes  it  appear  less  wonderful  than  it  is. — The  transformation 
that  spring  effects  in  a  shrubbery  described. — A  mistake  concerning  the 
course  of  nature  corrected. — God  maintains  it  by  an  unremitted  act. — • 
The  amusements  fashionable  at  this  hour  of  the  day  reproved. —Animals 
happy,  a  delightful  sight. — Origin  of  cruelty  to  animals. — That  it  is  a 
great" crime  proved  from  Scripture. — That  proof  illustrated  by  a  t;ile. — A 
line  drawn  between  the  lawful  and  unlawful  destruction  of  them. — Their 
good  and  useful  properties  insisted  on. — Apology  for  the  enconiums  be 
stowed  by  the  author  on  animals. — Instances  ofman's  extravagant  praise 
of  man. — The  groans  of  the  creation  shall  have  an  end. — A  view  taken  of 
the  restoration  of  all  things. — An  invocation  and  an  invitation  of  Him, 
who  shall  bring  it  to  pass. — The  retired  man  vindicated  from  the  charge  of 
useles^ness. — Conclusion. 

There  is  in  souls  a  sympathy  with  sounds, 
And  as  the  mind  is  pitch'd,  the  ear  is  pleas'd 
Will,  melting  airs  or  martial,  brisk  or  grave  ; 
Some  chord  in  unison  with  what  we  hear 
Is  touch'd  within  us,  and  the  heart  replies. 
How  soft  the  music  of  those  village  hells, 
Falling  at  intervals  up<m  the  ear 
In  cadence  sweet,  now  dying  all  away, 
Now  pealing  loud  again,  and  louder  still, 
Clear  and  sonorous,  as  the  gale  comes  on  ! 
With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  cells 
W'here  Menvry  slept.     Wherever  I  have  heard 
A  kindred  melody,  the  scene  recurs, 
And  with  it  all  its  pleasures  and  its  pains. 
Such  comprehensive  views  the  spirit  takes, 
That  in  a  few  short  moments  I  retrace, 
(As  in  a  map  the  voyager  his  course) 
The  windings  of  my  way  through  many  years 
Short  as  in  retrospect  the  journey  seems, 
It  seem'd  not  always  short;  the  rugged  path, 


272  THE    TASK. 

And  prospect  oft  so  dreary  and  forlorn, 
Mov'd  many  a  sigh  at  its  disheartening  length. 
Yet  feeling  present  evils,  while  the  past 
Faintly  impress  the  mind,  or  not  at  all, 
How  readily  we  wish  time  spent  revok'd, 
That  we  iu i flu  try  the  ground  again  where  once 
(Through  inexperience,  as  we  now  perceive) 
We  miss'd  that  happiness  we  might  hive  found! 
Some  frit1: id  is  gone,  perhaps  his  son's  best  friend, 
A  father,  whose  authority,  in  show 
When  most  severe,  and  must'ring  all  its  force, 
Was  bat  the  graver  countenance  of  love; 
Whose  favor,  like  the  clouds  of  spring,  might  low'r, 
And  utter  now  and  then  an  awf'ul  voice, 
But  had  a  blessing  in  its  darkest  frown, 
Threat'ning  at  once  and  nourishing  the  plant. 
We  lov'd  but  not  enough,  the  gentle  hand 
That  rear'd  us.     At  a  thoughtless  age,  allur'd 
By  ev'ry  gilded  folly,  we  renounc'd 
His  shelt'ring  side,  and  wilfully  forewent 
That  converse,  which  we  now  in  vain  regret. 
How  gladly  would  the  man  recall  to  life 
The  boy's  neglected  sire  !  a  mother  too, 
That  softer  friend,  perhaps  more  gladly  slill, 
Might  he  demand  them  at  the  gates  of  death. 
Sorrow  lias,  since  they  went,'  subdu'd  and  tam'd 
The  playful  humor;  he  could  now  endure, 
(Himself  grown  sober  in  the  vale  of  tears) 
And  fee!  a  parent's  presence  no  restraint. 
But  not  to  understand  a  treasure's  worth, 
Till  time  h:is  stol'n  away  the  slighted  good, 
Is  cause  of  half  the  poverty  we  feel. 
And  makes  the  world  the  wilderness  it  is. 
The  fe  v  ;hat  pray  at  all,  pray  oft  amiss, 
And,  seeking  grace  t'  improve  the  prize  they  hold, 
Would  urge  a  wiser  suit  than  asking  more. 

The  ni^lit  was  winter  in  his  roughest  mood; 
The  m  >rniug  sharp  and  cle:tr.      But  now  at  noon 
Upon  the  southern  side  "f  the  slant  hills, 
And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast, 
The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage, 
And  has  the  warmth  of  May.    The  vault  is  blue 
Wiihout  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  spe 
The  daz/ling  splendor  of  the  scene  below. 
Again  the  harmony  comes  o'er  the  vale; 
And  through  the  trees  T  view  th'  embattled  tow'r, 
Whence  all  the  mu>ic.      I  ".gain  perceive 
The  soothing  infiuenc  •  of  the  wafted  sr.-ams, 
And  settled  in  soft  musings  as  I  tiead 


-WINTER    WALK    AT    NOON. 

The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms 

Wliose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 

The  roof,  though  moveable  through  all  its  length 

As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  well  sutfic'd, 

And,  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 

The  frequent  flakes,  has  kept  a  path  for  me. 

No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought. 

The  redbreast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 

With  slender  notes,  and  more  than  half-suppress' d  ; 

.fleas' d  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 

From  spray  to  spray,  where'er  he  rests  he  shakes 

From  many  a  twig  the  pendent  drops  of  ice, 

That  tinkle  in  the  wither'd  leaves  below. 

Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft, 

Charms  more  than  silence.     Meditation  here 

May  think  down  hours  to  moments.     Here  the  heart 

May  give  a  useful  lesson  to  the  head, 

And  Learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 

Knowledge  and  wisdom,  far  from  being  one. 

Have  ot'ttimes  no  connexion.     Knowledge  dwells 

In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men  ; 

Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 

Knowledge,  a  rude  unprofitable  mass, 

The  mere  materials  with  which  Wisdom  builds, 

Till  smooth'd  arid  squar'd,  and  fitted  to  its  place, 

Does  but  encumber  whom  it  seems  t'  enrich. 

Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learn'd  so  much  ; 

isdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more. 
Books  are  not  seldom  talismans  and  spells, 
By  which  the  magic  art  of  shrewder  wits 
Holds  an  unthinking  multitude  enthrall'd. 
Some  to  the  fascination  of  a  name 
Surrender  judgment,  hoodwink'd.     Some  the  style 
Infatuates,  and  through  la  lyrinths  and  wilds 
Of  prior  leads  them,  by  a  tune  entranc'd. 
While  sloth  seduces  more,  too  weak  to  bear 
The  insupportable  fatigue  of  thought, 
And  swallowing  therefore  without  pause  or  choice 
The  total  grist  unsifted,  husks  and  all. 
But  trees  and  rivulets,  whose  rapid  course 
Defies  the  check  of  winter,  haunts  of  deer, 
And  sheep-walks  populous  with  bleating  lambs, 
And  lanes  in  which  the  primrose  ere  her  time 
Peeps  through  the   moss,  that  clothes  the  hawthorn  root 
Deceive  no  student.     Wisdom  there,  and  truth, 
Not  shy,  as  in  the  world,  and  to  be  won 
By  slow  solicitation,  seize  at  once 
The  roving  thought,  and  fix  it  on  themselves 

What  prodigies  can  pow'r  divine  perform 


274  THE  TASK. 

More  grand  than  it  produces  year  by  year 

And  all  in  sight  of  inattentive  man  ? 

Familiar  with  the  effect  we  slight  the  cause, 

And  in  the  constancy  of  nature's  course, 

The  regular  return  of  genial  months, 

And  renovation  of  a  faded  world, 

See  nought  to  wonder  at.     Should  God  again, 

As  once  in  Gibeon,  interrupt  the  race 

Of  the  undeviating  and  punctual  sun, 

,How  would  the  world  admire  !  but  speaks  it  leas 

/An  agency  divine,  to  make  him  know 

His  moment  when  to  sink  and  when  to  rise, 
:  Age  after  age,  than  to  arrest  his  course  ? 
1  All  we  behold  is  miracle  ;  but  seen 

So  duly,  all  is  miracle  in  vain. 

Where  now  the  vital  energy,  that  mov'd, 

"While  summer  was,  the  pure  and  subtle  lymph 

Through  tli'  imperceptible  meand'ring  veins 
Of  leaf  and  tiow'r  ?    It  sleeps  ;  and  th'  icy  touch 

Of  unprolitic  winter  his  impress'd 

A  cold  stagnation  on  th'  intestine  tide. 

But  let  the  months  go  round,  a  few  short  months, 

And  all  shall  be  restor'd.     These  naked  shoots, 

Barren  as  lances,  among  which  the  wind 

Makes  wintry  music,  sighing  as  it  goes, 

Shall  put  their  graceful  foliage  on  again, 

And  more  aspiring,  and  with  ampler  spread, 

Shall  boast  new  charms,  and  more  than  they  have  lost 

Then  each,  in  its  peculiar  honors  clad, 

Shall  publish  even  to  the  distant  eye 

Its  family  and  tribe.     Laburnum,  rich 

In  streaming  gold  ;  syringa,  iv'ry  pure  ; 

The  scentless  and  scented  rose  ;   this  red, 

And  of  an  humbler  growth,  the  other* tall, 

And  throwing  up  into  the  darkest  gloom 

Of  neighb'ring  cypress,  or  more  sable  yew, 

Her  silver  globes,  light  as  the  foamy  surf 

That  the  wind  severs  from  the  broken  wave  ; 

The  lilac,  various  in  array,  now  white, 

Now  sanguine,  and  her  beauteous  head  now  set 

With  purple  spikes  pyramidal,  as  if 

Studious  of  ornament,  yet  unresolv'd 

Which  hue  she  most  approv'd,  she  chose  them  all  ; 

Copious  of  rlow'rs  the  wuodJrne,  pale  and  wan, 

But  well  co;. ipens, sting  her  sickly  looks 

With  never-cloying  odours,  eaily  and  late; 

Hypericum  all  bloom,  so  thick  a  swarm 

*  The  Guelder-rose. 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOOX.  't 

Of  flow'rs,  like  flies  clothing  her  slender  rods, 
That  scarce  a  leaf  appears  ;   me/ereon  too, 
Though  leafless,  well  attired,  and  thick  beset 
With  blushing  wreaths,  investing  every  spray; 
Aith;ea  with  the  purple  eye;   the  broou:, 
Yellow  and  bright,  as  bullion  unalloy'd, 
Her  blossoms;  and  luxuriant  above  all 
The  jasm  iu-,  throwing  wide  her  elegant  sweets, 
The  deep  dark  green  of  whose  unvarnish'd  leaf 
Makes  more  conspicuous,  and  illumines  more, 
The  bright  profusion  of  her  scatter'd  stars. — • 
These  have  been,  an  I  these  shall  be  in  their  day  ; 
And  all  this  uniform  uncolor'd  scene 
Shall  be  dismantled  of  its  fleecy  load, 
And  flush  into  variety  again. 
From  d.-arth  to  plenty,  and  from  death  to  life, 
Is  Nature's  progress,  when  she  lectures  man 
In  heavenly  truth  ;  evincing,  as  she  makes 
The  grand  transition,  that  there  lives  and  works 
A  soul  in  all  things,  and  that  soul  is  God. 
The  beauties  of  the  wilderness  are  his, 
That  makes  so  gay  the  solitary  place, 

Where  no  eye  sees  them.     And  the  fairer  forms, 

That  cultivation  glories  in,  are  his. 

He  sets  the  bright  procession  on  its  way, 

And  marshals  all  the  order  of  the  year; 

He  marks  the  bounds,  which  Winter  may  not  pass, 

And  blunts  his  pointed  fury;   in  its  case, 

Russet  and  rude,  folds  up  the  tender  genr,, 

Uninjur'd,  with  inimitable  art; 

And,  ere  one  flow'ry  season  fades  and  di 

Designs  the  blooming  wonders  of  the  inxi. 
Some  say  that  in  the  origin  of  things, 

When  all  creation  start  -d  into  birth, 

The  infant  elements  received  a  law, 

From  which  they  swerve  not  since.     That  under  fores 

Of  that  controlling  ordinance  they  move, 

And  need  not  his  immediate  hand,  who  first 

Prescrib'd  their  course,  to  regulate  it  now. 

Thus  dream  they,  and  contrive  to  save  a  God 

Th'  encumbrance  of  his  own  concerns,  and  spare 

The  great  artificer  of  all  that  moves 

The  stress  of  a  continual  act,  the  pain 
.Of  unremitted  vigilance  and  care, 

As  too  laborious  and  severe  a  task. 

Sp  man,  the  ninth,  is  not  afraid,  it  seems, 
T?o  span  omnipotence,  and  measure  might, 

That  kn  '-.vs  ii"  measure,  by  thcr  •scanty  rule 

And  st,u;d.i"d  oi'liis  own,  that  is  to-day, 


175 


276  THE    TASK. 

And  is  not  ere  lo-morrow's  sun  go  down. 
But  how  should  matter  occupy  a  charge, 
Dull  as  it  is,  and  satisfy  a  law 
So  fast  in  its  demands,  unkss  impell'd 
To  ceaseless  service  by  a  ceaseless  force, 
And  under  pressure  of  some  conscious  cause? 
The  Lord  of  all,  himself  through  all  dift'ua'd, 
Sustains,  and  is  the  life  of  all  that  lives. 
;'  Nature  is  but  a  name  for  an  effect, 
Whose  cause  is  God.      He  feeds  the  sacred  fire 
By  which  the  mighty  process  is  maintain'd, 
Who  sleeps  not,  is  not.  weary;   in  whose  sight 
Slow  circling  ages  are  as  transient  days; 
Whose  work  is  without  labour;   whose  designs 
No  Haw  deforms,  no  difficulty  thwarts; 
And  whose  beneficence  no  charge  exhausts. 
Him  blind  antiquity  profan'd,  not  serv'd, 
With  self-taught  rites,  and  under  various  names, 
Female  and    male,    Pomona,  Pales,  P.<n. 
And  Flora,  and  Vertumnus;   peopling  earth 
With  tutelary  goddesses  and  gods, 
That  were  not:  and  commending  as  they  would 
To  each  some  province,  garden,  field,  or  gro.e. 
But  all  are  under  one.      One  spirit — His, 
Who  wore  the  platted  thorns  with  bleeding  brows, 
Rules  universal  nature.     Not  a  flow'r 
Bui  shows  some  touch,  in  ueckle,  streak,  or  stain, 
Of  his  unrivall'd  pencil.      He  inspires 
Their  balmy  odors,  and  imparts  their  hues, 
And  b.tthes  their  eyes  with  nectar,  and  includes, 
In  grains  as  countless  as  the  seaside  sands, 
The  forms  with  which  he  sprinkles  all  the  earth. ^ 
Happy  who  walks  with  him!    whom   what  he  finds 
Of  flavor  or  of  scent  in  fruit  or  ilow'r, 
Or  what  he  views  of  beautiful  or  grand 
In  nature,  from   the  broad  majestic  oak 
To  the  green  blade  that  twinkles  in  the  sun. 
Prompts  with  remembrance  of  a  present  God. 
His  presenc;',  who  made  nil  so  ''air,  prfrceiv'd, 
Makes  all  still  fairer.     As  with  him  no  scene 
Is  dreary,  so  with  him  all  seasons  please. 
Though  w. nter  had  beea  none,  had  man  been  true, 
And  earth  be  punish' d  for  its  tenant's  sake, 
Yet  not  in  vengeance  ;  as  ibis  smiling  sky, 
So  soon  succeeding  such  an  angry  night, 
And  these  dissolving  snows,  and  this  clear  stream 
Ilecov'ring  fast  its  liquid  music,  prove. 

Who  then,  that  has  a  mind  well  strung  and  tun'd 
To  contemplation,  and  within  his  reach 


THE    WINTF.R    WALK    \T    NOOK.  277 

A  scene  so  friendly  to  his  fav'rite  task, 

Would  waste  attention  at  the  checker'd  board, 

His  host  of  wooden  warriors  to  and  fro 

Marching  and  countermarching,  with  an  eye 

As  fix'd  as  marble,  with  a  forehead  ridg'd 

And  furrow'd  into  storms,  and  with  a  hand 

Trembling,  as  if  eternity  were  hung 

In  balance  on  Ms  conduct  of  a* pin  ? 

Nor  envies  he  aught  more  their  idle  sport, 

Who  p-iut  with  application  misapplied 

To  trivial  toys,  and.  pushing  iv'ry  balls 

Across  a  velvet  level,  feel  a  joy 

Akin  to  rapture,  when  the  bauble  finds 

Its  destin'd  goal,  of  difficult  access. 

Nor  deems  he  wisei  him,  who  gives  his  noon 

To  Miss,  the  mercer's  plague,  from  shop  to  shop 

Wand'ring,  and  litt'ring  with  unfolded  silks 

The  polish'd  counter,  and  approving  none, 

Or  promising  with  smiles  to  call  again. 

Nor  him,  win  by  his  vanity  seduc'd, 

And  sooth'd  into  a  dream  that  he  discerns 

The  difference  of  a  Cuido  from  a  daub. 

Frequent1-;  the  crowded  auction:   station'd  there 

As  duly  as  the  Langford  of  the  show, 

With  glass  at  eye.  and  catalogue  in  hand, 

And  tongue  accomplish 'd  in  the  fulsome  cant 

And  pedmtry,  that  coxcombs  learn  with  ease; 

Oft  as  the  price-deciding  hammer  falls, 

He  notes  it  in  his  book,  then  raps  his  box, 

Swears  'tis  a  bargain,  rails  at  his  hard  fate, 

That  he  has  let  it  pass — but  never  bids. 

Here  unmolested,  through  whatever  sign 
The    sun  proceeds,  I  wander.     Neither  mist, 
Nof  freezing  sky,  nor  sultry,  checking  me, 
Nor  stranger,  intermeddling  with  my  joy. 
E'en  in  the  spring  and  playtime  of  the  year, 
That  calls  th' unwonted  villager  abroad 
With  all  her  little  ones,  a  sportive  train, 
To  gather  kingcups  in  the  yellow  mead, 
And  prink  their  hair  with  daisies,  or  to  pick 
A  cheap  but  wholesome  salad  from  the  brook, 
These  shades  are  all  my  own.     The  tim'rous  hare. 
Grown  so  familiar  with  her  frequent  guest, 
Scarce  shuns  me  ;  and  the  stockdove  unalarm'd 
Sits  cooing  in  the  pine-tree,  nor  suspends 
His  long  love-ditty  for  my  near  approach. 
Drawn  from  his  refuge  in  some  lonely  elm, 
That  age  or  injury  has  hollow'd  deep, 
Where,  on  his  bed  of  wool  and  matted  leaves, 

2  B 


±JL 


878  THE    TASK. 

He  has  out?lept  the  winter,  ventures  forth 

To  frisk  a  while,  and  bask  in  the  warm  sun, 

The  squirrel,  flippant,  pert,  and  full  of  play  ; 

He  sees  me,  and  at  once,  swift  as  a  bird, 

Ascends  the  neighb'ring  beech;  there  whisks  his  brush, 

And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps,  and  cries  aloud, 

With  all  the  pretciness  of  t'eign'd  alarm, 

And  anger  insignificantly  fierce. 

The  heart  is  hard  in  nature,  and  unfit 
For  human  fellowship,  as  being  void 
Of  sympathy,  and  therefore  dead  alike 
T'>  love  and  friendship  both,  that  is  not  pleas'd 
With  sight  of  animals  enjoying  life, 
Nor  feels  their  happiness  augment  his  own. 
The  bounding  fawn  that  darts  across  the  glade 
When  one  pursues,  through  mere  delight  of  heart, 
And  spirits  buoyant  with  excess  of  glee  ; 
The  horse  as  wanton,  and  almost  as  fleet, 
That  skims  the  spacious  meadow  at  full  speed, 
Then  stops,  and  snorts^  and,  throwing  high  his  heels, 
Starts  to  the  voluntary  race  again  ; 
The  very  kine,  that  gambol  at  high  noon, 
The  total  herd  receiving  first  from  one, 
That  leads  the  dance,  a  summons  to  be  gay, 
Though  wild  their  strange  vagaries,  and  uncouth 
Their  efforts,  yet  resolv'd  with  one  consent 
To  give  such  act  and  utt'rance,  as  they  may 
To  ecstasy  too  big  to  be  suppress'd — 
These,  and  a  thousand  images  of  bliss, 
With  which  kind  Nature  graces  ev'ry  scene, 
Where  cruel  man  defeats  not  her  design, 
Impart  to  the  benevolent,  who  wish 
\   All  that,  are  capable  of  pleasure  pleas'd, 
\  A  far  superior  happiness  to  theirs, 
The  comfort  of  a  reasonable  joy. 

Man  scarce  had  ns'n,  obedient  to  his  call 


Who  fonii'd  him  from  the  dust,  his  future  grave, 

When  he  was  crown'd  as  never  king  was  since. 

God  set  the  diadem  upon  his  head, 

And  angel  choirs  attended.       Wond'ring  stood 

The  new-rn.,de  monarch,  while  before  him  pass'd, 

All  happy,  and  all  perfect  in  their  kind, 

The  creatures,  suiumon'd  from  their  various  haunt*, 

To  see  their  sov'reign,  and  confess  his  sway. 

Vast  was  his  empire,  absolute  his  pow'r, 

Or  bounded  only  by  a  law,  whose  force 

'Twas  his  sublimest  privilege  to  feel 

And  own,  the  law  of  universal  love. 

lie  ruJ'd  with  meekness,  they  obey'd  with  joy; 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  2"9 

No  cruel  purpose  lurk'd  within  bis  heart, 

And  no  distrust  of  his  intent  in  theirs. 

So  Eden  was  a  scene  of  harmless  sport, 

Where  kindness  on  his  p.-irt,  who  rul'd  the  whole, 

Begat  a  tranquil  confidence  in  all, 

And  fear  as  yet  was  not,  nor  cause  for  fear. 

But  sin  marr'd  all  ;  and  the  revolt  of  man, 

That  source  of  evils  not  exhausted  yet, 

Was  punished  witli  revolt  of  his  from  him. 

Garden  of  God,  how  terrible  the  change 

Thy  groves  and  lawns  then  witness'd  !    Ev'ry  heart, 

Each  animal,  of  ev'ry  name,  conceiv'd 

A  jealousy,  and  an  instinctive  fear, 

And,  conscious  of  some  danger,  either  fled 

Precipitate  the  loath'd  abode  of<nan, 

Or  growl'd  defiance  in  such  angry  sort, 

As  taught  him  too  to  tremble  in  his  turn. 

Thus  harmony  and  family  accord 

Were  driv'n  from  Paradise;  and  in  that  hrur 

The  seeds  of  cruelty,  that  since  have  swell'd 

To  such  gigantic  and  enormous  growth, 

Were  sown  in  human  nature's  fruitful  foil. 

Hence  date  the  persecution  and  the  pain, 

That  man  inflicts  on  all  inferior  kinds, 

Regardless  of  their  plaints.     To  make  him  sp^rt, 

To  gratify  the  frenzy  of  his  wrath, 

Or  his  base  gluttony,  are  causes  good 

And  just  in  his  account,  why  bird  and  beast 

Should  suffer  torture,  and  the  streams  be  dyed 

With  blood  of  their  inhabitants  impal'd. 

Earth  groans  beneath  the  burden  of  a  war 

Wag'd  with  defenceless  innocence,  while  he, 

Not  satisfied  to  prey  on  all  around, 

Adds  tenfold  bitterness  to  death  by  pangs 

Needless,  and  first  torments  ere  he  devours. 

Now  happiest  they,  that  occupy  the  scenes 

The  most  remote  from  his  abhorr'd  resort, 

Whom  once,  as  delegate  of  God  on  earth, 

They  fear'd,  and  as  his  perfect  image  lov'd. 

The  wilderness  is  theirs,  with  all  its  caves, 

Its  hollow  glens,  its  thickets,  and  its  plains, 

Unvisited  by  man.      There  they  are  free, 

And  howl  and  roar  as  likes  them,  uncoutrol.'d ; 

Nor  ask  his  leave  to  slumber  or  to  play. 

Wo  to  the  tyrant,  if  he  dare  intrude 

Within  the  confines  of  their  wild  domain: 

The  lion  tells  him--I  am  monarch  here — 

And.  if  he  spare  him,  spares  him  on  the  terms 

Of  royal  mercy,  and  through  gen'rous  scora 


280  THE    TASK. 

To  rend  a  victim  trembling  at  his  foot. 
In  measure,  as  by  force  of  instinct  drawn, 
Or  by  necessity  constrain' d,  they  live 
Dependent  upon  man  ;  those  in  his  fields, 
These  at  his  crib,  and  some  beneath  his  roof. 
They  prove  too  often  at  how  dear  a  rate 
He  sells  protection — Witness  at  his  foot 
The  spaniel  dying  for  some  venial  fault. 
Under  dissection  of  the  knotted  scourge  ; 
Witness  the  patient  ox,  with  stripes  and  yells 
Driv'n  to  the  slaughter,  goaded,  as  he  runs, 
To  madness  ;   while  the  savage  at  his  heels 
Laughs  at  the  frantic  sulPrer's  fury,  spent 
Upon  the  guiltless  passenger  o'etthrown. 
!L'  to  >  is  witness,  noblest  of  the  train 
That  w;iit  on  man,  the  Higtu-perforniing  horse; 
With  unsuspecting  readiness  he  takes 
il  s  m:ird'rer  on  his  back,  and  push'd  all  day 
\Virii  iileediug  sides  and  Hanks,  that  heave  for  lifes 
To  the  far  distant  goal,  arrives  and  dies. 
So  little  mercy  shows  who  needs  so  much! 
i)oes  l.tw,  so  jealous  in  the  cause  of  man, 
Denounce  no  doom  on  the  delinquent?     None, 
lie  lives,  and  o'er  his  brimming  beaker  boasts 
(As  if  barbarity  were  high  desert) 
TIT  inglorious  feat,  and  clamorous  in  praise 
O1'  tlie  poor  brute,  seems  wisely  to  suppose 
Thj  honors  of  his  matchless  horse  his  own. 
Hut  many  a  crime,  deem'd  innocent  on  earth, 
Is  register' d  in  heav'n  ;  and  these  no  doubt 
Have  each  their  record,  with  a  curse  annex'd 
Man  may  dismiss  compassion  from  his  heart, 
But  God  will  never.     When  he  charg'd  the  Jew 
T';t--sist  his  foe's  down-fallen  beast  to  rise; 
And  when  the  bush-exploring  boy,  that  seiz'd 
The  young,  to  let  the  parent  bird  go  free ; 
Prov'd  he  not  plainly,  that  his  meaner  works 
Are  yet  his  care,  and  have  an  int'rest  all, 
All,  in  the  universal  Father's  love? 
On  Noah,  and  in  him  on  all  mankind, 
The  charter  was  conferr'd,  by  which  we  hold 
The  ilesh  of  animals  in  fee,  and  claim 
O'er  all  we  feed  on  pow'r  of  life  and  death. 
But  read  the  instrument,  and  mark  it  well: 
Th' oppression  of  a  tyrannous  control 
Can  find  no  warrant  there.     Feed  then,  and  yield 
Thanks  for  thy  food.     Carnivorous,  through  sin, 
Feed  on  the  slain,  but  spare  the  living  brute! 
The  Governor  of  all,  himself  to  all 


THE    WINTER    WALK   AT    NOON.  281 

So  bountiful,  in  whose  attentive  ear 

Tiie  unrt.-dg'd  raven  and  the  lion's  whelp 

Plead  not  in  vain  for  pity  on  the  pangs 

Of  hunger  unassuag'd,  has  interpos'd, 

Not  seldom,  his  avenging  arm,  to  smite 

Th'injurious  trampler  upon  nature's  law, 

That  claims  forbearance  even  for  a  brute. 

He  hates  the  hardness  of  a  Balaam's  heart  ; 

And,  prophet  as  he  was,  he  might  not  strike 

The  blameless  animal,  without  rebuke, 

On  which  he  rode.      Her  opportune  offence 

Sav'd  him,  or  th'unrelenting  seer  had  died. 

He  sees  that  human  equity  is  slack 

To  interfere,  though  in  so  just  a  cause  ; 

And  makes  the  task  his  own.     Inspiring  dumb 

And  helpless  victims  wiih  a  sense  so  keen 

Of  injury,  with  such  knowledge  of  their  strength, 

And  such  sagacity  to  take  revenge, 

That  oft  the  beast  has  seem'd  to  judge  the  man. 

An  ancient,  not  a  legendary  tale, 

By  one  of  sound  intelligence  rehears'd, 

(If  such  who  plead  for  Providence  may  seem 

In  modern  eyes,)  shall  make  the  doctrine  clear. 

Where  England,  stretch'd  towards  the  setting  sun, 
Narrow  and  long,  o'erlooks  the  western  wave, 
Dwelt  young  Misagathus  ;  a  scorner  he 
Of  God  and  goodness,  atheist  in  ostent, 
Vicious  in  act,  in  temper  savage-fierce. 
He  journey'd;  and  his  chance  was,  as  he  went 
To  join  a  trav'ller,  of  far  ditf' rent  note, 
Evaiider,  fam'd  for  piety,  for  years 
Deserving  honor,  but  for  wisdom  more. 
Fame  had  not  left  the  venerable  man 
A  stranger  to  the  manners  of  the  youth, 
Whose  face  too  was  familiar  to  his  view. 
Their  way  was  on  the  margin  of  the  land, 
O'er  the  green  summit  of  the  rocks,  whose  base 
Beats  back  the  roaring  surge,  scarce  heard  so  high. 
The    charity,  that  warm'd  his  heart,  was  mov'd 
At  sight  of  the  man-monster.     With  a  smile 
Gentle,  and  affable,  and  full  of  grace, 
As  fearful  of  offending  whom  he  wish'd 
Much  to  persuade,  he  plied  his  ear  with  truths 
Not  harshly  thunder'd  forth,  or  rudelv  press' d. 
But,  like  his  purpose,  gracious,  kind,  and  sw  et. 
"  And  dost  tliou  dream,"  th 'impenetrable  man 
Exclaim'd,  "  that  me  the  lullabies  of  age, 
And  fantasies  of  dotards  such  as  thou, 
Can  cheat,  or  move  a  moment's  fear  in  me? 


282  THE    TASK. 

Mark  now  the  proof  I  give  thee,  that  the  brave 

Need  no  such  aids,  as  superstition  lends 

To  steel  their  hearts  against  the  dread  of  death." 

He  spoke,  and  to  the  precipice  at  hand 

Push'd  with  a  madman's  fury.      Fancy  shrinks 

And  the  blood  thrills  and  curdles,  at  the  thought 

Of  such  a  gulf  as  he  design'd  his  grave. 

But,  though  the  felon  on  his  back  could  dare 

The  dreadful  leap,  more  rational,  his  steed 

Dechn'd  the  death,  and  wheeling  swiftly  round, 

Or  e'er  his  hoof  had  press'd  the  crumbling  verge, 

Baffled  his  rider,  sav'd  against  his  will. 

The  frenzy  of  the  brain  may  be  redress'd 

By  med'cme  well  applied,  but  without  grace 

The  heart's  insanity  admits  no  cure. 

Enrag'd  the  more,  by  what  might  have  reform'd 

His  horrible  intent,  again  he  sought 

Destruction,  with  a  zeal  to  be  destroy'd, 

With  sounding  whip,  and  rowels  dyed  in  blood. 

But  still  in  vain.     The  Providence,  that  meant 

A  longer  date  to  the  far  nobler  beast, 

Spar'd  yet  again  th'ignoble  for  his  sake. 

And  now,  his  prowess  prov'd,  and  his  sincere 

Incurable  obduracy  evinc'd, 

His  rage  grew  cool ;  and,  pleas'd  perhaps  t'have  earn'd 

So  cheaply  the  renown  of  that  attempt, 

With  looks  of  some  complacence  he  resum'd 

His  road,  deriding  much  the  blank  amaze 

Of  good  Evander,  still  where  he  was  left 

Fix'd  motionless,  and  petrified  with  dread. 

So  on  they  far'd.     Discouse  on  oth  r  themes 

Ensuing  seem'd  t'obliterate  the  past ; 

And  tamer  far  for  so  much  fury  shown, 

(As  is  the  course  of  rash  and  fiery  mei<) 

The  rude  companion  smil'd,  as  if  transformed. 

But  'twas  a  transient  calm.     A  storm  was  near, 

An  unsuspected  storm.     His  hour  was  come. 

The  impious  challenger  of  Pow'r  divine 

Was  now  to  learn,  that  Heav'n,  though  slow  to  wrath, 

Is  never  with  impunity  defied. 

His  horse,  as  he  had  caught  his  master's  mood, 

Snorting,  and  starting  into  sudden  rage, 

Unbidden,  and  not  now  to  be  controll'd, 

Rush'd  to  the  cliff,  and,  having  reach'd  it,  stood. 

At  once  the  shock  unseated  him  :  he  flew 

Sheer  o'er  the  craggy  barrier ;  and,  iminers'd 

Deep  in  the  flood,  found,  when  he  sought  it  not, 

The  death  he  had  deserv'd,  and  died  alone. 

So  God  wrought  double  justice  ;  made  the  fool 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 

The  victim  of  his  own  tremendous  ch  >ice. 
And  taught  a  brute  the  way  10  safe  r  Lve  i^e. 

1  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  1'ri   a  Is 
(Though  grac'd  with  polish'd  manners  and  fine  sensj, 
Yet  wanting  sensibility)  the  man 
Who  nee.llessly  sets  toot  upon  a  worm. 
An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail, 
That  crawls  at  ev'ning  in  the  public  path  ; 
But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewaru'd, 
Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reprile  l.ve. 
The  creeping  vermi;i,  lo.ithsome  to  the  sight, 
And  charged  perhaps  with  venom,  that  intrudes, 
A  visitor  unwelcome,  into  scenes 
Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose,  th'alcove, 
The  chamber,  or  refectory,  may  die: 
A  necessary  act  incurs  no  blame. 
Not  so  when,  held  within  their  proper  bounds, 
And  guiltless  of  offence,  they  range  the  air, 
Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field  ; 
There  they  are  privileg'd  ;  and  he  that  hunts 
Or  harms  them  there  is  guilty  of  a  wrong, 
Disturbs  th'economy  of  Nature's  realm, 
Who,  when  she  form'd,  design'd  them  an  abode. 
The  sum  is  this.      If  man's  convenience,  health, 
)r  safety,  interfere,  his  rights  and  claims 
\.re  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 
Else  they  are  all — the  meanest  things  that  are, 
As  free  to  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life, 
As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first, 
Who  in  his  sov'reign  wisdom  made  them  all. 
Ye,  therefore,  who  love  mercy,  teach  your  sons 
To  love  it  too.     The  springtime  of  our  years 
Is  soon  dishonor'd  and  deh'Pd  in  most 
By  budding  ills,  that  ask  a  prudent  hand, 
To  check  them.     But  alas  !   none  sooner  shoots, 
If  unrestrain'd,  into  luxuriant  growth, 
Than  cruelty,  most  dev'lish  of  them  all. 
Mercy  to  him,  that  shows  it,  is  the  rule 
\nd  righteous  limitation  of  its  act, 
By  which  Heav'n  moves  in  pard'ning  guilty  man 
\nd  he  that  shows  none,  being  ripe  in  years, 
\nd  conscious  of  the  outrage  he  commits, 
Shall  seek  it,  and  not  find  it,  in  his  turn. 

Distinguish' d  much  by  reason,  and  still  more 
By  our  capacity  of  Grace  divine, 
From  creatures,  that  exist  but  for  our  sake, 
Wiiic'i,  having  serv'd  us,  perish,  we  are  held 
\cc  •'uni.t.ble  ;  and  God  some  future  day 
Ur;l'  rtvkcn  with  us  roundly  for  th'abuse 


284 


THE    TASK. 


Of  what  he  deems  no  mean  or  trivial  trust. 

Superior  as  we  are,  they  yet  depend 

Not  more  on  human  help  than  we  on  theirs. 

Their  strength,  or  speed,  or  vigilance,  were  giv'n 

In  aid  of  our  defects.     In  some  are  found 

Such  teachable  and  apprehensive  parts, 

That  man's  attainments  in  his  own  concerns, 

Match'd  with  th'  expertness  of  the  brutes  in  theirs 

Are  ofttimes  vanquish'd,  and  thrown  far  behind. 

Some  show  that  nice  sagacity  of  smell, 

An:l  read  with  such  discernment,  in  the  port 

And  figure  of  the  man,  his  secret  aim, 

T  iat  ot't  we  owe  our  safety  to  a  ?k;ll 

We  could  not  teach,  and  must  despair  to  learn. 

Bat  learn  we  might,  if  not  too  proud  to  stoop 

To  quadruped  instructors,  many  a  good 

A  id  useful  quality,  and  virtue  too, 

Ilarely  exemplified  among  ourselves; 

Attachment  never  to  be  wean'd,  or  chang'd 

By  any  change  of  fortune  ;  proof  alike 

Against  unkimlness,  absence,  and  neglect; 

Fidelity,  that  neither  bribe  nor  threat 

Can  move  or  warp  ;  and  gratitude  for  small 

And  trivial  favors,  lasting  as  the  life, 

And  glist'ning  even  in  the  dying  eye. 

Man  praises  man.     Desert  in  arts  or  arms 
Wins  public  honor  ;  and  ten  thousand  sit 
Patiently  present  at  a  sacred  song, 
Commemoration-mad  ;   content  to  hear 
(O  wonderful  eiiect  of  music's  pow'r!) 
Messiah's  eulogy  for  Handel's  sake. 
But  less,  methiiiks,  than  sacrilege  might  serve— 
(For,  was  it  less,  what  heathen  would  have  dar't 
To  strip  Jove's  statue  of  las  oaken  wi  each, 
And  hang  it  up  in  honor  of  a  man  ~!) 
Much  less  might  serve,  when  all  that  we  design 
Is  but  to  gratify  an  itching  ear, 
And  give  die  day  to  a  musician's  praise. 
Remember  Handel  .'   Who,  that  was  not  born 
Deaf  as  the  dead  to  harmony,  forgets, 
Or  can,  the  more  than  Homer  of  his  age'? 
Yes — we  remember  him  ;  and,  w'ule  we  praise 
A  talent  so  divine,  remember  too 
That  His  most  holy  book,  from  whom  it  came, 
Was  never  meant,  was  never  us'd  betore, 
To  buckram  o   t  the  mem'ry  of  a  man. 
E'Jt  hush! — tiie  tin'se  pe.hnps  is  too  severe; 
And  with  a  gravity  beyond  the  size 
And  measure  of  th' offence,  rebukes  a  deed 


THE    WINTER    WALK    AT    NOON.  2S5 


Less  impious  than  ^siml,  nn'l  owing  more 

To  want  of  judgment  than  to  wrong  design. 

So  in  the  chapel  of  oM  Ely  House, 

When  wand1  ring  Charles,  who  meant  to  be  the  third, 

Had  hV'il  fro  n  William,  and  the  news  w,ts  tresn, 

Th  >  simple  clerk,  but  loyal,  did  announce, 

And  eke  did  rear  right  merrily,   t-vo  staves, 

Snug  to  the  praise  and  glo-y  of  King  George! 

—  M  in  pauses  man  ;  an:l   Garrick's  mem'ry  next, 

When  time  had  somewhat  mellow'd  it,  and  made 

The  idol  of  our  worship  while  he  liv'd 

The  God  of  our  idolatry  once  more, 

Shall  have  its  altar;  and  the  world  shall  go 

fn  pilgrimage  to  how  before  his  shrine. 

The  theatre  too  small  shall  suffocate 

Its  sque.jz'd  contents,  an\  more  tlvtn  it  admits 

Shall  sigh  at  their  exclusion,  and  return 

Un  'ratified  :   for  there  some  noble  lord 

Shall  stuff  his  shoulders  with  king  Richard's  hunch, 

Or  wrap  himself  in  Hamlet's  inky  cloak, 

And  strut,  and  storm,  and  straddle,  stamp  and  stare 

To  show  the  world  how  Garrick  did  not  act. 

For  Garrick  was  a  worshipper  himself; 

He  drew  the  liturgy,  and  fram'd  the  rites 

And  solemn  ceremonial  of  the  day, 

And  call'd  the  world  to  worship  on  the  banks 

Of  Avon,  fam'd  in  song.     Ah,  pleasant  proof 

That  piety  has  still  in  human  hearts 

So  ne  place,  a  spark  or  two  not  yet  extinct. 

The    mulb'rry-tree  was  hung  with  blooming  wreaths  ; 

The  mulb'rry-tree  stood  centre  of  the  dance  ; 

The  mulb'rry-tree  was  hymn'd  with  dulcet  airs  ; 

And  f-om  his  touchwood  trunk  the  mulb'rry-tree 

Sunplied  such  relics  as  devotion  holds 

Still  s  icred,  and  preserves  with  pious  care. 

So  'twas  a  hallow'd  time:  decorum  reigtrd, 

And  mirth  without  offence.     No  few  return'd, 

Doubtless,  much  edified,  and  all  refresh'd.  — 

Man  praises  man.     The  rabble  all  alive 

From  tippling  benches,  cellars,  stalls  and  sties, 

Swarm  in  the  streets.     The  statesman  of  the  day, 

A  po  npous  and  slow-moving  pageant,'  comes. 

Some  shout  him,  and  so  ne  hang  upon  his  car, 

To  gaze  in's  eyes,  and  bless  him.     Maidens  ware 

Their  kerchiefs,  and  oil  women  weep  for  joy  : 

Wlrle  others,  not  so  satisfied,  unhorse 

The  gilded  equipage,  and,  turning  loose 

His  steeds  uvirp  a  place  th  jy  well  deserve. 

Why  ?  what  has  charm'd  them  ?    Hath  he  sav'd  the  state  t 


286  THE    TASK. 

No.     Doth  he  purpose  its  salvatjpn  ?   No. 

Enchanting  novelty,  that  moon  at  full, 

That  finds  out  ev'ry  crevice  of  the  head 

That  is  not  sound  and  perfect,  hath  in  theirs 

Wrought  this  disturbance.     But  the  wane  is  near, 

And  his  own  cattle  must  suffice  him  soon. 

Thus  idly  do  we  waste  the  breath  of  praise, 

And  dedicate  a  tribute,  in  its  use 

And  just  direction  sacred,  to  a  thing 

Doom'd  to  the  dust,  or  lodg'd  already  there. 

Encomium  in  old  time  was  poets'  work  ; 

But  poets,  having  lavishly  long  since 

Exhausted  all  materials  of  the  art, 

The  task  now  falls  into  the  public  hand; 

And  I,  contented  with  an  humbler  theme, 

Hive  pour'd  my  stream  of  panegyric  down 

The  vale  of  Nature,  where  it  creeps,  and  winds 

Among  her  lovely  works  with  a  secure 

And  unambitious  course,  reflecting  clear, 

If  not  the  virtues,  yet  the  worth,  of  brutes. 

And  I  am  recompens'd,  and  deem  the  toils 

Of  poetry  not  lost,  if  verse  of  mine 

May  stand  between  an  animal  and  wo, 

And  teach  one  tyrant  pity  for  his  drudge. 

The  groans  of  Nature  in  this  nether  worl-T, 
Which  Heav'n  has  heard  for  ages,  have  an  end. 
Foretold  by  prophets,  and  by  poets  sung, 
Whose  fire  was  kin  lied  at  the  prophets'  lamp, 
The  time  of  rest,  the  promis'd  sabbath,  comes. 
Six  thousand  years  of  sorrow  have  well-nigh 
Fullfill'd  their  tardy  and  disastrous  course 
Over  a  sinful  world  ;  and  what  remains 
Of  this  tempestuous  state  of  human  things 
Is  merely  as  the  working  of  a  sea 
Before  a  calm,  that  rocks  itself  to  rest : 
For  He,  whose  car  the  winds  are  and  the  cl'uitJs 
The  dust  that  waits  upon  his  sultry  march, 
When  sin  hath  mov'd  him,  and  his  wrath  is  hot, 
Shall  visit  earth  in  mercy ;  shall  descend 
Propitious  in  his  chariot  pav'd  with  love ; 
And  what  his  storms  have  blasted  and  defac'd 
For  man's  revolt  shall  with  a  smile  repair. 

Sweet  is  the  harp  of  prophecy ;   too  sweet 
Not  to  be  wrong' d  by  a  mere  mortal  touch  : 
Nor  can  the  wonders  it  records  be  sung 
To  meaner  music,  and  not  suffer  loss. 
But  when  a  poet,  or  when  one  like  me, 
Happy  to  rove  among  poetic  flow'rs, 
Though  poor  in  skill  to  rear  them,  lights  at  last 


THE    WINTER    WALK    AT    NODS'.  287 

On  some  fair  theme,  some  theme  divinely  fair, 
Such  is  the  impulse  and  the  spur  he  feels, 
To  give  it  praise  proportion'd  to  its  worth, 
That  not  t'atte.npt  it,  arduous  as  he  deems 
The  labour,  were  a  task  more  arduous  still. 

O  scenes  surpassing  fable,  and  yet  true, 
Scenes  of  acco  nplishM  bliss  !   which  who  can  see, 
Though  but  in  distant  prospect,  and  not  feel 
His  soul  refresli'd  with  fort-taste  of  the  joy  ? 
Rivers  of  gladness  water  all  the  earth, 
And  clothe  all  climes  with  beauty;   the  reproach 
Of  barrenn  -ss  is  past.     The  fruitful  field 
Laughs  with  abundance  ;  and  the  land,  once  lean, 
Or  fertile  only  in  its  own  disgrace, 
Exults  to  see  its  thistly  curse  rep  >al'd. 
The  various  seasons  woven  into  one, 
And  that  one  season  an  eternal  spring, 
The  garden  fe^rs  no  blight,  and  needs  no  fence, 
For  there  is  none  to  covet,  all  are  full. 
The  lion,  and  the  libbard,  and  the  bear, 
Graze  with  the  fearless  flocks ;  all  bask  at  noon 
Together,  or  all  gambol  in  the  shade, 
Of  the  same  grove,  and  drink  one  common  stream. 
Antipathies  are  none.      No  foe  to  man 
Lurks  in  the  serpent  now:   the  mother  sees, 
An  I  smiles  to  see,  her  inf  mt's  playful  hand 
Stretch'd  forth  to  dally  with  the  crested  worm, 
He  htr  ke  his  azure  neck,  or  to  receive 
The  lambent  homage  of  his  arrowy  tongue. 
All  c  eatures  worship  man,  and  all  mankind 
One  Lord,  one  father.     Error  has  no  place  : 
That  creeping  pestilence  is  driv'n  away; 
The  breath  of  Heav'n  has  chas'd  it.      In  the  heart 
No  passion  touches  a  discordant  string, 
But  all  is  harmony  and  love.      Disease 
Is  not  :  the  pure  ;>nd  uncontaminate  blood 
Holds  its  due  course,  nor  fears  the  frost  of  age, 
One  song  employs  all  nations  ;  and  all  cry 
"  Worthy  the  Lamb,  for  he  was  slain  for  us!" 
The  dwellers  in  the  vales  and  on  the  rocks 
S'.out  to  each  other,  and  the  mountain-tops 
From  distant  mountains  catch  the  flying  joy ; 
Till,  nation  afte-  nation  taught  the  strain, 
Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  Hosanna  round. 
Behold  the  measure  of  the  promise  fill'd; 
See  Salem  built,  the  labour  of  a  God! 
Brir'it  as  a  s  in  the  sacred  city  shines; 
All  kingdoms  and  all  princes  of  the  earth 
Flock  to  that  l.ght  ;  the  glory  of  all  lands 


28  ^  THE    TASK. 

Flows  into  her;  unbounded  is  her  joy, 
And  endless  her  increase.     Thy  rams  are  there, 
Nebaioth,  and  the  flocks  of  Kedar  there  :  * 
The  looms  of  Ormus,  and  the  mines  of  Incl, 
And  Saba's  spicy  groves,  pay  tribute  there. 
Praise  is  in  all  her  gates :   upon  her  walls, 
And  in  her  streets,  and  in  her  spacious  courts 
Is  heard  salvation.     Eastern  Java  there 
Kneels  with  the  native  of  the  farthest  west ; 
And  ./Ethiopia  spreads  abroad  the  hand, 
And  worships.     Her  report  has  travell'd  forth 
Into  all  lands.     From  ev'ry  clime  they  come 
To  see  thy  beauty,  and  to  share  thy  joy, 
O  Sion  !  an  assembly  such  as  earth 
Saw  never,  such  as  heav'n  stoops  down  to  see. 

Thus  heav'nward  all  things  tend.      For  all  were  once 
Perfect,  and  all  must  be  at  length  restor'd. 
So  God  has  greatly  purpos'd  ;  who  would  else 
In  his  dishonor'd  works  himself  endure 
Dishonor,  and  be  wrong'd  without  redress. 
Haste  then,  and  wheel  away  a  shatter'd  world, 
Ye  slow-revolving  seasons  !  we  would  see 
(A  sight  to  which  our  eyes  are  strangers  yet) 
A  world,  that  does  not  dread  and  hate  his  laws, 
And  suffer  for  its  crime ;  would  learn  how  fair 
The  creature  is  that  God  pronounces  good, 
How  pleasant  in  itself  what  pleases  him. 
Here  ev'ry  drop  of  honey  hides  a  sting  : 
Worms  wind  themselves  into  our  sweetest  floiv'rs 
And  e'en  the  joy,  that  haply  some  poor  heart 
Derives  from  Heav'n,  pure  as  the  fountain  is. 
Is  sullied  in  the  stream,  taking  a  taint 
From  touch  of  human  lips,  at  best  impure. 
O  tor  a  world  in  principle  as  chaste 
As  this  is  gross  and  selfish  !   over  which 
Custom  and  prejudice  shall  bear  no  sway 
That  govern  all  things  here,  should'ring  aside 
The  meek  and  modest  Truth,  and  forcing  her 
To  seek  a  refuge  from  the  tongue  of  Strife 
In  nooks  obscure,  far  from  the  ways  of  men: 
Where  Violence  shall  never  lift  the  sword, 
Nor  Cunning  justify  the  proud  man's  wrong, 
Leaving  the  poor  no  remedy  but  tears : 
Where  he,  that  fills  an  office,  shall  esteem 
Th'occasion  it  presents  of  doing  good 

*  Nebaioth  and  Kedar,  the  sons  of  Ishmael,  and  progenitors  of  the 
Arabs,  in  the  prophetic  scripture  here  alluded  to,  may  be  reasonably  ..-on- 
Bidered  as  representatives  of  the  Gentiles  at  large. 


THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  289 

More  than  the  perquisite  :  where  Law  shall  speak 
Seldom,  and  never  but  as  Wisdom  prompts 
And  equity  ;  not  jealous  more  to  guard 
A  worthless  form,  than  to  decide  aright: 
Where  Fashion  shall  not  sanctify  abuse, 
Nor  sm  ioth  Good -breed  ing  (supplemental  grace) 
With  lean  performance  ape  the  work  of  Love! 
Come  then,  and,  edited  to  thy  many  crowns, 
Receive  yet  one,  the  crown  of  all  the  earth, 
Thou  who  alone  art  worthy!    It  was  thine 
By  ancie  it  covenant,  ere  Nature's  birth  ; 
And  th  u  hast  nude  it  thi.ie  by  purchase  since, 
And  overpaid  its  value  with  thy  blood. 
Thy  s  lints  prodaim  thee  king  ;  and  in  their  hearts 
Thy  title  is  e  ig  aveu  with  a  pen 
Pipp'd  in  ihe  fountain  of  eternal  love. 
Thy  saints  proclaim  thee  king  ;    and  thy  delay 
Gives  courage  to  their  foes,  who,  could  they  see 
The  dawn  of  thy  last  advent,  long-desir'd, 
Would  creep  into  the  bowels  of  the  hills, 
And  flee  for  safety  to  the  falling  rocks. 
Tne  very  spirit  of  the  worl  I  is  tir'd 
Of  its  own  tainting  question,  ask'd  so  long, 
"  Where  is  the  promise  of  your  Lord's  approach  ?" 
The  infidel  lias  shot  his  bolts  away, 
Till,  his  exhausted  quiver  yielding  none, 
He  gleans  the  blunted  shafts,  that  have  recoil'd, 
A:ul  aims  them  at  the  shield  of  Truth  again. 
The  veii  is  rent,  rent  too  by. priestly  hands, 
That  hides  divinity  from  mortal  eyes  ; 
And  all  the  mysteries  to  faith  propos'd, 
Ins  ilted  and  tradnc'd,  are  cast  aside, 
As  useless,  to  the  moles  and  to  the  bats 
They  now  are  deem'd  the  faithful,  and  are  prais'd, 
Who,  constant  only  in  rejecting  thee, 
Deny  thy  Godhead  with  a  martyr's  zeal, 
An  1  quit  their  office  for  their  error's  sake. 
IJli  id,  and  in  love  with  darkness  !   yet,  e'en  these 
Wo  thy.  compar'd  with  sycophants,  who  kneel 
n  •  adoring,  and  then  preach  thee  man! 
fares  thy  church.     But  how  thy  church  may  fare 
T:  e  world  "takes  little  thought.   Who  will  may  preach, 

y  will.     All  pastors  are  alike 
To  sheep,  lesolv'd  to  follow  none. 

Two  gods  divide  them  all — Pleasure  and  Gain: 
For  these  they  live,  they  sacrifice  to  these, 
And  in  their  service  wage  perpetual  war 
V\  ith  Conscience  and  with  thee.     Lust  in  their  hearts. 
And  mischief  in  their  hands,  they  roam  the  earih 

2o 


290  THE    TASK. 

To  prey  upon  each  other  :    stubborn,  fierce, 
High-minded,  foaming  out  their  own  disgrace. 
Thy  prophets  speak  of  such  ;    and,  noting  down 
The  features  of  the  last  degen'rate  times, 
Exhibit  ev'ry  lineament  of  these. 
Come  then,  and,  added  to  thy  many  crowns, 
Receive  yet  one,  as  radiant  as  the  rest, 
Due  to  thy  last  and  most  effectual  work, 
Thv  word  fulfiU'd,  the  conquest  of  a  world  ! 

He  is  the  happy  man,  whose  life  e'en  now 
Shows  somewhat  of  that  happier  life  to  come  ; 
Who,  doom'd  to  an  obscure  but  tranquil  state, 
Is  pleas'd  with  it,  and,  were  he  free  to  choose, 
Would  make  his  fate  his  choice ;    whom  peace,  the  fruit 
Of  virtue,  and  whom  virtue,  fruit  of  faith, 
Prepare  for  happiness  ;    bespeak  him  one 
Content  indeed  to  sojourn  while  he  must 
Below  the  skies,  but  having  there  his  hone. 
The  world  o'erlooks  him  in  her  busy  search 
Of  objects,  more  illustrious  in  her  view  ; 
And,  occupied  as  earnestly  as  she, 
Though  more  sublimely,  he  o'erlooks  the  world. 
She  scorns  his  pleasures,  for  she  knows  them  not; 
He  seeks  not  hers,  for  he  has  prov'd  them  vain. 
He  cannot  skim  the  ground  like  summer  birds 
Pursuing  gilded  flies;    and  such  he  deems 
Her  honors,  her  emoluments,  her  joys. 
Therefore  in  contemplation  is  his  bliss, 
Whose  pow'r  is  such,  that  whom  she  lifts  from  earth 
She  makes  familiar  with  a  heav'n  unseen, 
And  shows  him  glories  yet  to  be  reveal'd. 
Not  slothful  he,  though  seeming-  unemploy'd, 
And  censur'd  oft  as  useless.     Stillest  streams 
Oft  water  fairest  meadows,  and  the  bird, 
That  flutters  least,  is  longest  on  the  wing. 
Ask  him,  indeed,  what  trophies  he  has  rais'd, 
Or  what  achievements  of  immortal  fame 
He  purposes,  ,-Hnd  he  shall  answer — None. 
His  warfare  is  within.     There  unfatigu'd 
H.s  fVrvent  spirit  labours.     There  he  fights, 
And  there  obtains  fresh  triumphs  o'er  himself, 
And  never  with'ring  wreaths,  compar'd  with  which, 
The  laurels  that  a  Caesar  reaps  are  weeds. 
Perhaps  the  s "It-approving  haughty  world, 
That  as  she  sweeps  him  with  her  whistling  silks 
Scarce  deigns  to  notice  him,  or,  if  she  see, 
Deems  him  a  cypher  in  the  works  of  God, 
Keceives  advantage  from  his  noiseless  hours, 
Of  which  she  little  dreams.     Perhaps  she  owes 


THE    WINTER    WALK    AT    NOON.  91 

Her  suns-bine  and  her  rain,  her  blooming  spring 

And  plenteous  harvest,  to  the  pr.ty'r  he  makes, 

When,  Isaac-like,  the  solitary  saint 

Walks  forth  to  meditate  at  eventide, 

And  think  on  her,  who  thinks  not  for  herself. 

Forgive  him  then,  thou  bustler  in  concerns 

Of  little  worth,  an  idler  in  the  best, 

If,  author* of  no  mischief  and  some  good, 

He  s  'ek  his  proper  happiness  by  means 

That  niay  advance,  but  cannot  hinder,  thine. 

Nor,  though  he  tread  the  secret  path  of  life, 

Engage  no  notice,  and  enjoy  much  ease, 

Account  him  an  encumbrance  on  the  state, 

Receiving  benefits,  and  rend'ring  none. 

-His  spin-re  though  humble,  if  that  humble  sphere 

Shine  with  his  fair  example,  and  though  small 

His  influence,  if  that  influence  all  be  spent 

In  soothing  sorrow,  and  in  quenching  strife, 

In  aiding  helpless  indigence,  in  works, 

From  which  at  least  a  grateful  few  derive 

Some  taste  of  comfort  in  a  world  of  woe  ; 

Then  let  the  supercilious  great  confess 

He  serves  his  country,  recompenses  well 

The  state,  beneath  the  shadow  of  whose  vine 

He  sits  secure,  and  in  the  scale  of  life 

Holds  no  ignoble,  though  a  slighted,  place. 

The  man,  whose  virtues  are  more  felt  than  seen, 

Must  drop  indeed  the  hope  of  public  praise  ; 

But  he  m  ly  boast,  what  few  that  win  it  can, 

That,  if  his  country  stand  not  by  his  skill, 

At  least  his  follies  have  not  wrought  her  fall. 

Polite  Refinement  olfers  him  in  vain 

Her  golden  tube,  through  which  a  sensual  world 

Draws  gross  impurity,   and  likes  it  well, 

The  ne  it  conveyance  hiding  all  th'  offence. 

Not  that  he  peevishly  rejects  a  mode 

R"fMMS'.'  th  ;t  wo  1  1  adopts  it.      If  it  bear 

The  stamp  and  clear  impression  of  good  sense, 

And  be  not  costly  more  than  of  true  worth, 

He  puts  it  on,  and  for  decorum  sake 

Can  wear  it  e'en  as  gracefully  as  she. 

She  judges  of  refinement  by  the  eye, 

He  by  the  test  of  conscience,  and  a  heart 

Not  soon  deceiv'd  ;  aware  that  what  is  base 

No  polish  can  make  sterling;  and  that  vice, 

']  hough  well  perfum'd  and  elegantly  dress'd, 

Like  an  unburied  carcass  trick'd  with  flow'rs, 

Is  but  a  garnish' d  nuisance,  fitter  far 

For  cleanly  riddance,  than  for  fair  attire. 


292  THE    TASK. 

So  life  glides  smoothly  and  by  stealth  away, 

More  golden  than  that  age  of  fabled  gold 

Renown'd  in  ancient  song  ;  not  vex'd  with  care 

Or  stain'd  with  guilt,  beneficent,  approv'd 

Of  God  and  man,  and  peaceful  in  its  end. 

So  glide  my  life  away,  and  so  at  last, 

My  share  of  duties  decently  fulfill'd, 

May  some  disease,  not  tardy  to  perform 

Its  destin'd  office,  yet  with  gentle  stroke, 

Dismiss  me  we;;ry  to  a  safe  retreat, 

Beneath  the  turf,  that  I  have  often  trod. 

It  shall  not  grieve  me  then,  that  once,  when  oall'd 

To  dress  a  Sofa  with  the  flovv'rs  of  verse, 

I  play'd  a  while,  obedient  to  the  fair, 

With  that  light  task  ;  but  soon,  to  pleas".-  her  more, 

Whom  flow'rs  alone  I  knew  would  little  please, 

Let  fall  th'  unfinish'd  wreath,  and  rov'd  for  fruit ; 

Roved  far,  and  gathered  much  :  some  harsh,  'tis  true, 

Picked  from  the  thorns  and  briers  of  reproof, 

But  wholesome,  well  digested  ;  grateful  some 

To  palates  that  can  taste  immortal  truth  ; 

Insipid  else,  and  sure  to  be  despis'd. 

But  all  is  in  His  hand,  whose  praise  I  seek. 

In  vain  the  poet  sings,  and  the  world  hears, 

If  he  regard  not,  though  divine  the  theme. 

'Tis  not  in  artful  measures,  in  the  chime 

And  idle  tinkling  of  a  minstrel's  lyre, 

To  charm  his  ear,  whose  eye  is  on  the  heart  ; 

Whose  frown  can  disappoint  the  proudest  strain 

Whose  approbation — prosper  even  mine. 


AN  EPISTLE 
TO    JOSEPH    HILL    ESQ. 


Dear  Joseph — five  and  twenty  years  ago — 
Alas  how  time  escapes! — 'tis  even  so — 
With  frequent  intercourse,  and  always  sweet, 
And  alway  friendly,  we  were  wont  to  cheat 
A  tedious  hour — and  now  we  never  meet ! 
As  some  grave  gentleman  in  Terence  says, 
('T  was  therefore  much  the  same  in  ancient  days) 
Good  lack,  we  know  not  what  to-morrow  brings— 
Strange  fluctation  of  all  human  things! 
True.     Changes  will  befall,  and  friends  may  part, 
But  distance  only  cannot  change  the  heart ; 
And  were  I  call'd  to  prove  th'  assertion  true, 
One  proof  should  serve— a  reference  to  you. 

Whence  conies  it  then,  that  in  the  wane  of  life, 
Though  nothing  have  occurr'd  to  kindle  strife, 
We  find  the  friends  we  fancied  we  had  won, 
Though  num'rous  once,  reduc'd  to  few  or  none  ? 
Can  gold  grow  worthless,  that  has  stood  the  touch? 
No ;  gold  they  seeai'd,  but  tney  were  never  such. 

Horatio's  servant  once,  with  bow  and  cringe, 
Swinging  the  parlor-door  upon  its  hinge, 
Dreading  a  negative,  and  overaw'd 
Lest  he  should  trespass,  begg'd  to  go  abroad. 
Go,  fellow! — whither? — turning  short  about — 
Nay.    Stay  at  home — you're  always  going  out. 
!Tis  but  a  step,  sir,  just  at  the  street's  end. — 
For  what  ? — An  please  you,  sir,  to  see  a  friend — 
A  friend  !    Horatio  cried,  and  seem'd  to  start — 
Yea  marry  shalt  thou,  and  with  all  my  heart. — 
And  fetch  my  cloak ;  for,  though  the  night  be  raw, 
I'll  see  him  too — the  first  1  ever  saw. 

2   c   2 


294  EPISTLE   TO    J.    HILL,    ESQ. 

I  knew  the  man,  and  knew  his  nature  mild, 
And  was  h  s  plaything  often  when  a  child  ; 
But  somewhat  at  that  moment  pincli'd  him  close, 
Use  he  was  seldom  bitter  or  morose. 
Perhaps  his  confidence  just  then  betray'd, 
His  grief  might  prompt  him  with  the  speech  he  made  ; 
Perhaps,  'twas  mere  good-humour  gave  it  birth, 
The  harmless  play  of  pleasantry  and  mirth. 
Howe'er  it  was,  his  language,  in  my  mind, 
Bespoke  at  least  a  man  that  knew  mankind. 

But  not  to  moralize  too  much,  and  strain 
To  prove  an  evil,  of  which  all  complain, 
(I  hate  long  arguments  verbosely  spun,) 
One  story  more,  dear  Hill,  and  I  have  done. 
Once  on  a  time  an  emp'ror,  a  wise  man, 
No  matter  where,  in  China  or  Japan, 
Decreed,  that  whomsoever  should  offend 
Against  the  well-known  duties  of  a  friend 
Convicted  once  should  ever  after  wear 
But  half  a  coat,  and  show  his  bosom  bare. 
The  punishment  importing  this,  no  doubt, 
That  all  was  naught  within,  and  all  found  out. 

0  happy  Britain  !  we  have  not  to  fear 
Such  hard  and  arbitrary  measure  here  ; 
Else,  could  a  law,  like  that  which  I  relate, 
Once  have  the  sanction  of  our  triple  state, 
Some  few,  that  I  have  known  in  days  of  old, 
Would  run  most  dreadful  risk  of  catching  cold 
While  you,  my  friend,  whatever  wind  should  blow, 
Might  traverse  England  safely  to  and  fro, 
An  honest  man,  close-button'd  to  the  chin, 
Broad-cloth  without,  and  a  warm  heart  within. 


TIROCINIUM: 

OR, 

A    REVIEW    OF    SCHOOLS: 


'Ke<pa\aiov  fir]  Traifotac  op9r]  rpo0»j.     Plato. 
TroAiraac.  cnra.Gt}£  viuv  rpo^a     Dlog. 


It  is  not  from  his  form,  in  which  we  trace 
Strength  join'd  with  beauty,  dignity  with  grace, 
That  in  in,  the  master  of  this  globe,  derives 
His  right  of  empire  over  all  that  lives. 
That  form  indeed,  th'associate  of  a  mind 
Vast  in  its  pow'rs,  ethereal  in  its  kind, 
Th.it  form,  the  labour  of  almighty  skill, 
Fram'd  for  the  service  of  a  freeborn  will, 
Asserts  precedence,  and  bespeaks  control, 
But  borrows  all  its  grandeur  from  the  soul. 
Hers  is  the  state,  the  splendor,  and  the  throne, 
An  intellectual  kingdom,  all  her  own. 
For  her  the  Mem'ry  fills  her  ample  page 
With  truths  pour'd  down  from  ev'ry  distant  age  ; 
For  her  amasses  an  unbounded  store, 
The  wisdom  of  great  nations,  now  no  more  ; 
Though  laden,  n't  encumber'd  with  her  spoil; 
Laborious,  yet  unconscious  of  her  toil  ; 
"When  copiously  supplied,  then  most  enlarg'd; 
St  11  to  be  fed   and  not  to  be  surcharg'd. 
For  her  the  Fancy,  roving  unconfin'd, 
The  present  muse  of  ev'ry  pensive  mind, 
Works  magic  woncers,  adds  a  brighter  hue 
To  Nature's  scenes  than  Nature  ever  knew. 
At  her  command  winds  rise,  and  waters  roar. 
Again  she  1  lys  them  slumb'ring  on  the  shore  ; 
With  rlow'r  and  fruit  the  wilderness  supplies, 
Or  bids  the  rocks  in  ruder  pomp  arise. 
For  her  the  Judgment,  umpire  in  the  strife, 
That  Grace  ;ind  Nature  have  to  wage  through  life, 
Quick-sighted  arbiter  of  good  and  ill, 
Appointed  sage  preceptor  to  the  Will, 
Condemns,  approves,  and  with  a  faithful  voice, 


296  TIROCINIUM:  OR, 

Guides  the  decision  of  a  doubtful  choice 
Why  did  the  fiat  of  a  God  give  birth 
To  yon  fair  Sun,  and  his  attendant  Earth  ? 
And,  when  descending  he  resigns  the  skies, 
Why  takes  the  gentler  Moon  her  turn  to  rise, 
Whom  Ocean  feels  through  all  his  countless  waves, 
And  owns  her  pow'r  on  ev'ry  shore  he  laves? 
Why  do  the  seasons  still  enrich  the  year, 
Fruitful  and  young  as  in  their  first  career  ? 
Spring  hangs  her  infant  blossoms  on  the  trees, 
llo^k'd  in  the  cradle  of  the  western  breeze  ; 
Summer  in  haste  the  thriving  charge  receives 
Beneath  the  shade  of  her  expanded  leaves, 
Till  Autumn's  fiercer  heats  and  plenteous  dews 
Dye  them  at  last  in  all  their  glowing  hues. — 
'Twere  wild  profusion  all,  and  bootless  waste, 
Pow'r  misemploy'd,  munificence  misplac'd, 
Had  not  its  author  dignified  the  plan, 
And  crown'd  it  with  the  majesty  of  man. 
Thus  form'd,  thus  plac'd,  intelligent,  and  taught, 
Look  where  he  will,  the  wonders  God  has  wrought, 
The  wildest  scnrner  of  his  Maker's  laws 
Finds  in  a  sober  moment  time  to  pause, 
To  press  th'i  npoitant  question  on  his  heart, 
"  Why  form'd  at  all.  and  wherefore  as  thou  art?" 
If  man  be  what  he  seems,  this  hour  a  slave, 
The  next  mere  dust  and  ashes  in  the  grave; 
Endu'd  with  reason  only  to  descry 
His  crimes  and  follies  with  an  aching  eye  ; 
With  passions,  just  that  he  may  prove,  with  pain, 
The  force  he  spends  against  their  fury  vain ; 
And  if,  soon  after  having  burnt,  by  turns, 
With  ev'ry  lust,  with  which  frail  Nature  burns, 
His  being  end,  where  death  dissolves  the  bond, 
The  tomb  take  all,  and  ail  De  blank  beyond  ; 
Then  he,  of  all  that  Nature  has  brought  forth, 
Stands  self-impeach'd  the  creature  of  least  worth, 
And  useless  while  he  lives  and  when  he  dies, 
Biings  into  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  skies. 

Truths,  that  the  learn'd  pursue  with  eager  thought. 
Are  not  important  always  as  dear-bought, 
Proving  at  1-ist,  though  told  in  pompous  strains, 
A  childish  waste  of  philosophic  pains  ; 
But  truths,  on  which  depends  our  main  concern, 
That  'tis  our  shame  and  mis'ry  not  to  learn, 
Shine  by  the  side  of  ev'ry  path  we  tread 
With  such  a  lustre,  he  that  runs  may  read. 
'Tis  true  that,  if  to  trifle  life  away 
I>own  to  the  sunset  of  their  latest  day, 


A     REVIEW    OF    SCHOOLS.  297 

Then  perish  on  futurity's  wide  shore 

Like  fleeting  exhalations,  found  no  more, 

Were  all  that  Heav'n  requir'd  of  humankind, 

And  all  the  plan  their  destiny  de>igu'd, 

What  none  could  rev'rence  all  might  justly  bl;ime, 

And  man  would  breathe  but  for  his  Maker's  shame. 

But  reason  heard,  and  nature  well  perus'd, 

At  once  the  dreaming  mind  i<  disa'>us'd. 

If  all  we  find  possessing  earth,  sea,  air, 

Reflect  his  attributes,  who  plac'd  them  there, 

Fulfil  the  purpose,  and  .  ppear  design' d 

Pro  >fs  of  tlie  wisdom  of  th'all-seeing  mind, 

'Tis  plain  the  creature,  whom  he  chose  t'invest 

With  kinjship  and  dominion  o'er  the  rtst, 

Receiv'd  his  nobler  nature,  and  w  is  made 

Fit  for  the  pow'r,  in  which  he  stands  array'd  ; 

That  first,  or  la>t,  hereafter,  if  not  here, 

He  too  might  make  his  author's  wisdom  clear, 

Praise  him  on  Earth,  or,  obstinately  dumb, 

Suffer  his  justice  in  a  world  to  come. 

This  once  believ'd,  'twere  logic  misapplied, 

To  prove  a  consequence  by  none  denied. 

That  we  are  bound  to  cast  the  minds  of  youth 

Betimes  into  the  mould  of  heav'niy  truth, 

That  taught  of  God  they  m  iy  indeed  be  wise, 

Nor  ignorantly  wand'ring  miss  the  skies. 

In  early  days  the  conscience  has  in  most 
A  quiek  iess,  which  in  liter  life  is  lost: 
Preserv'd  from  guilt  by  salutary  fears, 
Or  guilty  soon  relenting  into  tears. 
Too  careles;  often,  as  our  years  proceed, 
What  friends  we  sort  with,  or  what  books  we  read, 
Our  parents  yet  exert  a  prudent  care. 
To  feed  our  i.ifant  minds  with  proper  fare  ; 
And  wisely  store  the  nurs'rv  by  degrees 
With  wholesome  learning1,  yet  acquir'd  with  ease. 
Neatlv  secur'd  from  being  soil'd  or  torn 
Beneath  a  pine  of  thin  translucent  horn, 
A  book  (t<>  please  us  at  a  tender  age 
'Tis  c  ll'd  a  book,  though  but  a  single  page) 
Presents  .he  pray'r  the  Saviour  deign'd  to  teach, 
Which  ch.ldreu  use,  and  parsons — when  they  preach. 
Lisping  our  svli  .ble>.  We  sc. amble  next 
Through  moral  nirrative,  or  sicred  text; 
And  learn  with  wonder  how  this  world  began, 
Who  made,  who  n;arrM,and  who  has  ransom'd,  man. 
Points,  which,  unless  the  Scripture  made  ihem  plum, 
The  wisest  heads  m:ght  agitate  in  vain. 
O  tliou,  whom,  borne  on  fancy's  eager  wm6* 


298  TIROCINIUM:  OR, 

Back  to  the  season  of  life's  happy  spring, 

I  pleas' d  remember,  and,  while  mem'ry  yet 

Holds  fast  her  office  here,  can  ne'er  forget; 

Ingenious  dreamer,  in  who^e  well-told  tale 

Sweet  fiction  and  sweet  truth  alike  prevail  ; 

Whose  hum'rous  vein,  strong  sense,  and  simple  style, 

May  teach  the  gayest,  make  the  gravest  smile  ; 

Witty,  and  well  employ'd,  and,  like  thy  Lord, 

Speaking  in  parablt-s  his  slighted  word  ; 

I  name  th  e  not,  lest  so  despis'd  a  name 

Should  move  a  sneer  at  thy  deserved  fame  ; 

Yet  e'en  in  transitory  life's  late  day, 

That  mingles  all  my  brown  with  sober  gray, 

Revere  the  man,  who-e  pi/grim  marks  the  road, 

And  guides  the  progress  of  the  soul  to  God. 

'Tweie  well  with  most,  if  bo;>ks,  that  could  engage 

Their  childhood-,  pleas'd  them  at  a  riper  age  ; 

The  man,  appiovmg  what  had  charm  d  the  boy, 

Would  die  atjast  in  comfort,  peace,  and  joy; 

And  not  with  curses  on  his  heart,  who  stole 

The  gem  of  truth  from  his  unguarded  soul. 

The  stamp  of  artless  piety  impiess'd 

By  kind  tuition  on  his  yielding  breast, 

The  youth  now  bearded,  and  yet  pert  and  raw, 

Regards  with  scorn,  though  once  receiv'd  with  awe; 

And,  wa;p'd  into  the  labyrinth  of  lies, 

That  babblers,  call'd  philosophers,  devise, 

Blasphemes  his  creed,  as  founded  on  a  plan 

Replete  with  dreams,  unworthy  of  a  man. 

Touch  but  his  nature  in  its  ailing  part, 

Assert  tlie  native  evil  of  his  heart, 

His  pride  resents  the  charge,  although  the  proof  * 

Rit-e  in  his  forehead,  and  seem  r;mk  enough: 

Point  to  the  cure,  describe  a  Saviour's  cross 

As  God's  expedient  to  retrieve  his  loss, 

The  young  apostate  sickens  at  the  view, 

And  hates  it  with  the  malice  of  a  Jew. 

How  weak  the  barrier  of  mere  Nature  proves, 
Oppos'd  against  the  pleasures  Nature  loves! 
W'hile  self-betray 'd,  and  wilfully  undone, 
She  longs  to  yield,  no  sooner  woo'd  than  won. 
Try  now  the  merits  of  this  blest  exchange 
Of  modest  truth  for  wit's  eccentric  range. 
Time  was,  he  clos'd  as  he  began  the  day 
With  decent  duty,  not  asharn'd  to  pray: 
The  practice  was  a  bond  upon  his  heart, 
A  pledge  he  gave  ()r  a  consistent  part ; 

*  See  2  Chron.,  ch.  xxvi,  ver.  19. 


A  REVIEW  or  SCHOOLS  299 

Nor  could  he  dire  presumptuously  displease 

A  pow'r.  confess'd  so  lately  on  his  knees. 

But  now  farewell  all  legendary  tales, 

The  sh  r.lows  fly,  philosophy  prevails  : 

Pray'r  to  the  winds,  and  caution  to  the  waves  ; 

R  -!i  rio  i  makes  the  free  by  nature  slaves. 

Priests  have  invented,  and  the  world  admir'd 

Whn  knivish  priests  promulgate  as  inspir'd; 

Till  Reason,  now  no  longer  overaw'd, 

Resumes  her  pow'rs,  and  spurns  the  clumsy  fraud ; 

And,  common-sense  diffusing  real  day, 

The  meteor  of  the  Gospel  dies  away. 

Such  rlnpsodics  o'ir  shrewd  discerning  youth 

Learn  fro'n  expert  inquiries  after  truth  ; 

Whose  only  ca.e,  might  truth  presume  to  speak, 

Is  not  to  find  what  th<jy  profess  to  seek. 

And  thus,  well-tntor'd  only  while  we  share 

A  mother's  lec'tu-es  and  a  nurse's  care  ; 

And  taught  Rt  schools  much  mythologic  stuff,  • 

But  sound  ieligion  sparingly  enough  ; 

Our  early  notices  of  truth,  disgrac'd, 

Soon  lose  their  credit,  and  are  all  effac'd. 

Woul.l  you  your  <son  should  be  a  sot  or  dunce, 
Lascivious,  headstrong,  or  all  these  at  once ; 
That  in  good  time  the  stripling's  finish'd  taste 
For  loose  expense,  and  fashionable  waste, 
Should  prove  your  ruin,  and  his  own  at  last; 
Train  him  in  public  with  a  mob  of  boys, 
Childish  in  mischief  only  and  in  noise, 
Else  of  a  mannish  growth,  and  five  in  ten 
In  infidelity  and  lewdness  men. 
There  shall  he  learn,  ere  sixteen  winters  old, 
That  authors  are  most  useful  pawn'd  or  sold ; 
That  pedantry  is  all  that  schools  impart, 
But  taverns  teach  the  knowledge  of  the  heart ; 
There  waiter  Dick,  with  Bacchanalian  lays, 
Shall  win  his  heart,  and  have  his  drunken  praise, 
His   counsellor  and  bosom  friend  shall  prove, 
And  some  street-pacing  harlot  his  first  love. 
Schools,  unless  discipline  were  doubly  strong, 
Detain  the.r  adolescent  charge  too  long; 
The  management  of  tiroes  of  eighteen 
Is  difficult ;    their  punishment  obscene. 

*  The  author  begs  leave  to  explain. — Sensible  that,  without  such 
knowledge,  neither  the  ancient  poets  nor  historians  can  be  tasted,  or  in- 
deed understood  ne  does  not  mean  to  censure  the  pains  that  are  taken 
to  instruct  a  schoolboy  in  the  religion  of  the  Heathen,  but  merely  that 
neglect  of  Christian  culture  which  leaves  him  shamefully  ignorant  of  hi» 
OKn. 


300  TIROCINIUM  :    OK, 

The  stont  tall  captain,  whose  superior 

The  minor  hero  s  view  with  envious  eves, 

Beco'iies  their  pattern,  upon  whom  they  fix 

Their  whole  attention,  and  ape  all  his  tricks. 

His  pride,  that  scorns  t'obey  or  to  submit, 

With  them  is  courage  ;  his  effront'rv  wit. 

His  wild  excursions,  window-breaking  f-ats, 

Rohb'ry  of  gardens,  quarrels  in  the  streets, 

His  hairbreadth  'scapes,  and  all  his  (Wing  schemes. 

Transport  them,  and  are  made  their  fav'rite  themes. 

In  little  bosoms  such  achievements  strike 

A  kindred  sptrk:    they  born  to  do  the  like. 

Thus,  half-accomplish'd  ere  he  yet  beg-in 

To  show  the  peeping  down  upon  his  chin  ; 

And,  as  maturity  of  years  comes  on, 

Made  just  th'adept  that  you  design'd  your  son  ; 

T'ensure  the  perseverance  of  his  course, 

And  give  your  monstrous  project  all  its  force, 

Send  him  to  college.     If  he  there  be  tam'd, 

Or  in  one  article  of  vice  reclaim'd, 

Where  no  regard  of  ordinances  is  shown 

Or  look'd  for  now,  the  fault  must  be  his  own. 

Some  sneaking  virtue  lurks  in  him,  no  doubt, 

Where  neither  strumpets'  charms  nor  drinking-bout. 

Nor  gambling  practices,  can  find  it  out. 

Such  youths  of  spirit,  and  that  spirit  too, 

Ye  nurs'ries  of  our  boys,  we  owe  to  you  : 

Though  from  ourselves  the  mischief  more  proceeds. 

For  public  schools  'tis  public  folly  feeds. 

The  slaves  of  custom  and  establish'd  mode, 

With  packhorse  constancy  we  keep  the  road, 

Crooked  or  straight,  through  quags  or  thorny  dells, 

True  to  the  jingling  of  our  leader's  bells. 

To  follow  foolish  precedents,  and  wink 

With  both  our  eyes,  is  easier  than  to  think: 

And  such  an  age  as  ours  baulks  no  expense, 

Except  of  caution,  and  of  common-sense; 

Else  sure  notorious  fact,  and  proof  so  plain, 

Would  turn  our  steps  into  a  wiser  train. 

I  blame  not  those,  who  with  what  care  they  can 

O'erwatch  the  num'rous  and  unruly  clan ; 

Or,  if  I  blame,  'tis  only  that  they  dare 

Promise  a  woik,  of  which  they  must  despair. 

Have  ye,  ye  sage  intendants  of  the  whole, 

A  ubiquarian  presence  and  control, 

Elisha's  eye,  that,  when  Gehazi  stray'd, 

Went  with  him,  and  saw  all  the  game  he  plny'd  ? 

Yes — ye  are  conscious  ;    and  on  all  the  shelves 

Your  pupils  strike  upon  have  struck  yourselves. 


A    REVIEW  OF    SCHOOLS, 

Or  if,  by  nature  sober,  ye  had  then, 

Boys  as  ye  were,  the  gravity  of  men  ; 

Ye  kne.v  at  least,  by  constant  proofs  address'd 

To  ears  and  eyes,  the  vices  of  the  rest. 

But  ye  connive  at  what  ye  cannot  cure, 

And  ev:ls,  not  to  be  etulur'd,  endure, 

Lest  pow'r  exerted,  but  without  success, 

Should  make  the  little  ye  retain  still  less. 

Ye  once  were  justly  fam'd  for  bringing  forth 

Undoubted  scholarship  and  genuine  worth  ; 

And  in  the  firmament  cf  fame  still  shines 

A  glory,  bright  as  that  of  all  the  signs, 

Of  poets  rais'd  by  you,  and  statesmen,  and  divine* 

Peace  to  them  all!   those  brilliant  times  are  fled, 

And  no  such  lights  are  kindling  in  their  stead. 

Our  striplings  shine  indeed,  but  with  such  rays, 

As  set  the  midnight  riot  in  a  blaze  ; 

And  seem,  if  judg'd  by  their  expressive  looks, 

Deeper  in  none  than  in  their  surgeon's  books 

Say  muse,  (for,  education  m;ide  the  song, 
No  muse  can  hesitate,  or  linger  long) 
What  causes  move  us,  knowing  as  we  must, 
That  the-e  menageries  all  fail  their  trust, 
To  send  onr  sons  to  scout  and  scamper  there, 
While  coirs  and  puppies  cost  us  so  much  care  ? 

Be  it  a  weakness,  it  deserves  some  praise, 
We  love  the  pl.iyplace  of  our  early  days ; 
The  scene  is  touching,  and  the  heart  is  stone, 
That  feels  not  at  that  sight,  and  feels  at  none. 
The  wall  on  which  we  tried  our  graving  skill, 
The  very  name  we  carv'd  subsisting  still; 
The  bench  on  which  we  sat  while  deep  employ'd. 
Tho'  mangled,  hack'd,  and  hew'd  not  yet  destroy'd; 
The  little  or.es,  unbutton'd,  glowing  hot, 
Playing  our  games,  and  on  the  very  spot ; 
As  happy  as  we  once,  to  knee!  and  draw 
The  chalky  ring,  and  knuckle  down  at  taw; 
To  pitch  the  ball  into  the  grounded  hat, 
Or  drive  if  devious  with  a  dext'rous  pat; 
The  pleasing  spectacle  at  once  excites 
Such  recollection  of  our  own  delights, 
That,  viewing  it,  we  seem  almost  t'obtain 
Our  innocent  sweet  simple  years  again. 
This  fond  atiachment  to  the  well-known  place, 
Whence  first  we  started  into  life's  long  race, 
Maintains  its  hold  with  such  unfail  ng  sway, 
We  feel  it  e'en  in  age,  and  at  our  latest  day. 
Hark!    how  the  sire  of  chits,  whose  future  share 
Of  classic  food  begins  to  be  his  care, 

2  n 


301 


802  TIROCINIUM:    OR, 

With  his  own  likeness  plac'd  on  either  knee, 
Indulges  all  a  father's  heart-felt  glee  ; 
And  tells  them,  as  he  strokes  their  silver  locks, 
That  they  must  soon  learn  Latin,  and  to  box; 
Then  turning  he  regales  his  list'ning  wife 
With  all  th'adventures  of  his  early  life  ; 
His  skill  in  coachmanship,  or  driving  chaise, 
In  bilking  tavern  bills,  and  spouting  plays; 
What  shifts  he  us'd,  detected  in  a  scivipe, 
How  he  was  flogg'd,  or  had  the  luck  t'escape ; 
What  sums  he  lost  at  play,  and  how  he  sold 
Watcn,  seals,  and  all — till  all  his  pranks  are  told. 
Retracing  thus  his  frolics,  ('tis  a  name 
That  palliates  deeds  of  folly  and  of  shame) 
He  gives  the  local  bias  all  its  sway; 
Res  Jves  that  where  he  play'd  his  sons  shall  play, 
And  destines  their  bright  genius  to  be  s-hown 
Just  in  the  scene  where  he  display'd  his  own. 
The  meek  and  bashful  boy  will  soon  be  taught, 
To  be  as  bold  and  forward  as  he  ought ; 
The  rude  will  scuffle  through  with  ease  enough, 
Great  schools  suit  best  the  sturdy  and  the  rough. 
Ah  happy  designation,  prudent  choice, 
Th'event  is  sure  ;  expect  it;  and  rejoice! 
Soon  see  your  wish  fulnll'd  in  either  child, 
The  pert  made  perter,  and  the  tame  made  wild. 

Tht  great  indeed,  by  titles,  riches,  birth, 
Excus'd  th'encumbrance  of  more  solid  worth, 
Are  best  dispos'd  of  where  with  most  success 
They  may  acquire  that  confident  address, 
Those  habits  of  profuse  and  lewd  expense, 
That  scorn  of  all  delights  but  those  of  sense, 
Which,  though  in  plain  plebeians  we  condemn, 
With  so  much  reason  all  expect  from  them. 
But  families  of  less  illustrious  fame, 
Whose  chief  distinction  is  their  spotless  name, 
Whose  heirs,  their  honors  none,  their  income  small, 
Must  shine  by  true  descent,  or  not  at  all, 
What  dream  they  of,  that  with  so  little  care 
They  risk  their  hopes,  their  dearest  treasure,  there? 
They  dream  of  little  Charles  or  William  grac'd 
With  wig  prolix,  down  flowing  to  his  waist; 
'ihey  see  th'attentive  crowds  his  talents  draw, 
'i  hey  hear  him  speak — the  oracle  of  law. 
rl  he  father,  who  designs  his  babe  a  priest, 
L  reams  him  episcopally  such  at  least ; 
^nd,  while  the  playful  jockey  scours  the  room 
Briskly,  astride  upon  the  parlor  broom, 
In  fancy  sees  him  more  superbly  ride 


A    REVIEW    OF    SCHOOLS.  803 

In  coach  with  purple  lin'd,  and  mitres  on  its  s  de. 

Events  improbable  and  strange  as  these, 

Which  only  a  parental  eye  foresees, 

A  public  school  shall  bring  to  pass  with  ease. 

But  how  ?  resides  such  virtue  in  thai  air, 

As  must  create  an  appetite  for  pr-iy'r  ? 

And  will  it  breathe  into  him  all  the  zeal, 

That  candidates  for  sujh  a  prize  shou.d  foul, 

To  take  the  lead  and  be  the  foremost  still 

In  all  true  worth  and  literary  skill  ? 

"  Ah  blind  to  bright  futurity,  untaught 

The  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  dull  of  thought! 

Church-ladders  are  not  always  mounted  best 

By  learned  clerks,  and  Latinists  profess'd. 

Th'exalted  prize  demands  an  upward  look, 

Not  u>  be  found  by  poring  on  a  book. 

Small  skill  in  Latin,  and  still  less  in  Greek, 

Is  more  than  adequate  to  all  1  seek. 

Let  erudition  grace  him,  or  not  grace, 

I  give  the  bauble  but  the  second  place  ; 

His  wealth,  fame,  honors,  all  that  I  intend, 

Subsist  and  centre  in  one  point — a  friend. 

A  friend,  whate'er  he  studies  or  neglects, 

Shall  give  him  consequence,  heal  all  defects. 

His  intercourse  with  peers  and  sons  of  peers — 
There  dawns  the  splendor  of  his  future  years : 

In  that  bright  quarter  his  propitious  skies 
Shall  blush  betimes,  and  there  his  glory  rise. 

Your  Lords/tip,  and  Your  Grace  I  what  school  can  teach 
A  rhet'ric  equal  to  those  parts  of  speech  ? 

What  need  of  Homer's  verse,  or  Tully's  prose, 
Sweet  interjections!   if  he  learn  but  those? 
Let  rev'rend  churls  his  ignorance  rehuke, 
Who  starve  upon  a  dog's-ear'd  Pentateuch, 
The  parson  knows  enough,  who  knows  a  duke  " 

Egregious  puipose!  worthily  begun 

In  barb'rous  prostitution  of  your  son  ; 

Press'd  on  his  part  by  means,  that  would  disgrace 

A  scriv'ner's  clerk,  or  footman  out  of  place, 

And  ending,  if  at  last  its  end  be  gain'd, 

In  sacrilege,  in  God's  own  house  profan'd. 

It  may  succeed  ;  and,  if  his  sins  should  call 

For  niore  than  common  punishment,  it  shall  ; 

The  wretch  shall  rise,  and  he  the  thing  on  Earth 

Least  qualified  in  honor,  learning,  worth, 

To  occupy  a  sacred,  awful  post, 

In  which  the  best  and  woithiest  tremble  most. 

The  royal  letters  are  a  thing  of  course, 

A  king,  that  would,  might  recommend  his  horse  ; 


•04  TIROCINIUM:  OR, 

And  deans,  no  doubt,  and  chapters,  with  one  voice, 

As  bound  in  ducy,  would  confirm  the  choice. 

Behold  your  bishop !    well  he  plays  his  part, 

Christian  in  name,  and  infidel  in  heart, 

Ghastly  in  office,  e  trthly  in  his  plan, 

A  sl.ive  at  court,  elsewhere  a  lady's  man. 

Dumb  as  a  senator,  and  as  a  priest 

A  piece  of  mere  church-furniture  at  best; 

To  live  estrang'd  from  God  his  fotal  scope, 

Aivl  his  end  sure,  without  one  glimpse  of  hope. 

But  ,'air  although  and  feasible  it  seem, 

Depend  not  much  upon  your  golden  dream ; 

For  Providence,  that  seems  concern'd  t'  exempt 

The  hallow'd  bench  from  absolute  contempt, 

In  spite  of  all  the  wrigglers  into  place, 

Still  keeps  a  seat  or  two  for  worth  and  grace; 

And  therefore  'tis,  that,  though  the  sight  be  rare, 

We  sometimes  see  a  Lowth  or  Bagot  there. 

Besides,  school -friendships  are  not  always  found, 

Though  fair  in  promise,  permanent  and  sound ; 

The  most  disiut'rested  and  virtuous  minds, 

In  early  years  connected,  time  unbinds  ; 

New  situations  give  a  diff'rent  cast 

O.  habit,  inclination,  temper,  taste; 

And  he,  that  seeui'd  our  counterpart  at  first, 

Soon  shows  the  scrong  similitude  revers'd. 

Young  heads  are  giddy,  and  young  hearts  are  warm, 

And  make  mistakes  for  manhood  to  reform. 

Buys  are  at  best  but  pretty  buds  unblown, 

Whose  scent  and  hues  are  rather  guess'd  than  known  & 

Each  dreams  that  each  is  just  what  he  appears, 

But  learns  his  error  in  maturer  years, 

When  disposition,  like  a  sail  unfurl' d, 

Shows  all  its  rents  and  patches  to  the  world. 

If,  therefore,  e'en  when  honest  in  design, 

A  boyish  friendship  may  so  soon  decline, 

'T  were  wiser  sure  t'  inspire  a  little  heart 

With  just  abhorrence  of  so  mean  a  part, 

Than  set  your  son  to  work  at  a  vile  trade 

For  wages  so  unlikely  to  be  paid. 

Our  public  hives  of  puerile  resort, 
That  are  of  chief  and  most  approv'd  report, 
To  such  base  hopes,  in  many  a  sordid  soul, 
Owe  their  repute  in  part,  but  not  the  whole. 
A  principle,  whose  proud  pretensions  pass 
Unquestion'd,  though  the  jewel  be  but  glass- 
That  with  a  world,  not  often  over-nice, 
Ranks  as  a  virtue,  and  is  yet  a  vice  ; 
Or  rather  a  gross  compound,  justly  tried, 


A    REVIEW    v>F    SCHOOLS. 

Of  envy,  hatred,  jealousy,  and  pride- 
Contributes  most  perhaps  i  enhance  their  fame  ; 
And  emulation  is  its  specious  name. 
Boys,  once  on  fire  witli  that  contentious  zeal, 
Feel  all  the  rage,  that  female  rivals  feel ; 
The  prize  of  beauty  in  a  woman's  eyes 
Not  brighter  than  in  theirs  the  scholar's  prize. 
The  spirit  of  that  competition  burns 
With  all  varities  of  ills  by  turns  ; 
Each  vainly  magnifies  his  own  success, 
Resents  his    fellow's,  wishes  it  were  less; 
Exults  in  his  miscarriage,  if  he  fail ; 
Deems  his  reward  too  great,  if  lie  prevail  ; 
And  labours  to  surpass  him  day  and  night, 
Less  for  improvement  than  to  tickle  spite. 
The  spur  is  pow'rful,  and  I  grant  its  force  ; 
It  prick.s  the  genius  forward  in  its  course, 
Allows  short  time  for  play,  and  none  for  sloth  ; 
And,  felt  alike  by  each,  advances  both  ; 
But  judge,  where  so  much  evil  intervenes, 
The  end,  though  plausible,  not  worth  the  means. 
Weigh,  for  a  moment,  classical  desert 
Against  a  heart  deprav'd  and  temper  hurt ; 
Hurt  too  perhaps  for  life  ;  for  early  wrong, 
Done  to  the  nobler  part,  affects  it  long  ; 
And  you  are  staunch  indeed  in  learning's  cause, 
If  you  can  crown  a  discipline,  that  draws 
Such  mischiefs  after  it,  with  much  applause. 

Connection  form'd  for  int'rest,  and  endear'd 
Bv  selfish  views,  thus  censur'd  and  cashier'd ; 
And  emulation,  as  engend'ring  hate, 
Doom'd  to  a  no  less  ignominious  tate  : 
The  props  of  such  proud  seminaries  i'all, 
The  Jachin  and  the  Boaz  of  them  all. 
Great  schools  rejected  then,  as  those  that  swell 
Beyond  a  size  that  can  be  manag'd  well, 
Shall  royal  institutions  miss  the  bays, 
And  small  academies  win  all  the  praise  ? 
Force  not  my  drift  heyond  its  just  intent, 
I  praise  a  school  as  Pope  a  government ; 
So  take  my  judgment  in  his  language  dress'd, 
"  Whate'er  is  best  administer'd  is  Lest." 
Few  boys  are  horn  with  talents  that  ex.ce!, 
But  all  are  capable  of  living  well ; 
Then  ask  not,  Whether  limited  or  large  .' 
But,  Watch  they  strictly,  or  neglect  their  charge  f 
If  anxious  only,  that  their  boys  may  learn, 
While  wo'-a/.v  languish,  a  despis'd  concern, 
The  great  and  small  deserve  one  common  blame, 

2  D  2 


305 


S06  TIROCINIUM:  on, 

Diff  rent  in  size,  but  in  effect  the  same. 
Much  zeal  in  virtue's  cause  all  teachers  boast, 
Though  motives  of  mere  lucre  sway  the  most; 
Therefore  in  towns  and  cities  they  abound, 
For  there  the  game  they  seek  is  easiest  found; 
Though  there,  in  spite  of  all  that  care  can  do, 
Tr<ps  to  catch  youth  are  most  abundant  too. 
If  shrewd,  ami  of  a  well  constructed  brain, 
Keen  in  pursuit,  and  vig'rous  to  retain, 
Your  son  come  forth  a  prodigy  of  skill  ; 
As,  wheresoever  taught,  so  foim'd,  he  will  ; 
The  pedagogue,  with  self-complacent  air, 
Claims  more  than  half  the  praise  as  his  due  share 
But  if,  with  all  his  genius,  he  betray, 
Not  more  intelligent  than  loose  and  gay, 
Such  vicious  habits  as  disgrace  his  name, 
Threaten  his  health,  his  fortune,  and  his  fame  ; 
Though  want  of  due  restraint  alone  have  bred 
The  symptoms  that  you  see  with  so  much  dread ; 
Unenvied  there,  he  may  sustain  alone 
The  whole  reproach,  the  fault  was  all  his  own. 

O  'tis  a  sight  to  be  with  joy  perus'd, 
By  all  whom  sentiment  has  not  abus'd  ; 
New-fangled  sentiment,  the  boasted  g^ace 
Of  those  who  never  feel  in  the  right  place  ; 
A  sight  surpass'd  by  none  that  we  can  show, 
'Though  Vestris  on  one  leg  still  shine  below  ; 
A  father  blest  with  an  ingenuous  son, 
Father,  and  friend,  and  tutor,  all  in  one. 
How! — turn  again  to  tales  long  since  forgot, 
^Esop,  and  Phaedrus,  and  the  rest?  —Why  not? 
He  will  not  blush,  that  has  a  father's  heart, 
To  take  in  childish  plays  a  childish  part  ; 
But  bends  his  sturdy  back  to  any  toy, 
That  youth  takes  pleasure  in,  to  please  his  boy  ; 
Then  why  resign  into  a  stranger's  hand 
A  task  as  much  within  your  own  command, 
That  God  and  nature,  and  your  int'rest  too, 
Seem  with  one  voice  to  delegate  to  you  I 
Why  hire  a  lodging  in  a  house  unknown 
For  one  whose  tend'rest  thoughts  all  hover  round  your 
This  second  weaning,  needless  a*  it  is,  [  own  ? 

How  does  it  lac'rate  both  your  heart  and  his! 
Th'  indented  stick,  that  loses  day  by  day 
Notch  after  notch,  till  all  are  smooth'd  away, 
Bears  witness,  long  ere  his  dismission  come, 
With  what  intense  desire  he  wants  his  home. 
But  though  the  joys  he  hopes  beneath  your  roof 
Bid  fair  enough  to  answer  in  the  proof, 


A    REVIEVi     OP    SCHOOLS.  307 

Harmless,  and  safe,  and  nat'ral,  as  they  are, 

A  dissappointment  wait.-*  him  even  there: 

Arriv'ci,  he  feels  an  unexpected  change, 

lie  blushes,  hangs  his  head,  is  shy  and  strange, 

No  longer  takes,  as  once,  with  fearless  ease, 

HJi  fav'rite  stand  between  his  father's  knees, 

But  seeks  the  corner  of  some  distant  seat, 

And  eyes  the  door  and  watches  a  retreat, 

And,  least  familiar  where  he  should  be  most, 

Feels  all  his  happiest  privileges  lost 

Alas,  poor  boy! — the  natural  effect 

Of  love  by  absence  chill'd  into  respect. 

Say,  what  accomplishments,  at  school  acquirM, 

Brings  he,  to  sweeten  fruiis  ?o  undesir'd  I 

Thou  well  deserv'st  an  alienated  son, 

Unless  thy  conscious  heart  acknowledge— »one  ; 

None  that,  in  thy  domestic  snug  rec 

He  had  not  made  his  own  with  more  adtiiess, 

Though  some  perhaps,  that  shock  thy  t';  > -Lng  mind, 

And  better  never  learn'd,  or  left  behin  h 

Add  too,  that,  thus  estrang'd,  thou  canst  obtain 

By  no  kind  arts  his  confidence  again ; 

That  here  begins  with  most  that  long  complaint 

Of  filial  frankness  lost,  and  love  grown  faint, 

Which,  oft  neglected,  in  life's  waning  yi 

A  parent  pours  into  regardless  ears. 

Like  caterpillars,  dangling  under  trees 
By  slender  threads,  and  swinging  in  the  breeze, 
Which  filthily  bewray  and  sore  disgrace 
The  boughs  in  which  are  bred  th'unseemly  race  ; 
While  cv'ry  worm  industriously  weaves 
And  winds  his  web  about  the  rivell'd  leaves; 
So  num'rous  are  the  follies,  that  annoy 
The  mind  and  heart  of  ev'ry  sprightly  boy  ; 
Imaginations  noxious  and  perverse, 
Which  admonition  can  alone  disperse. 
Th'encroaching  nuisance  asks  a  faithful  hand, 
Patient,  affectionate,  of  high  command, 
To  check  the  procreation  of  a  breed 
Sure  to  exhaust  the  plant  on  which  they  feed, 
'Tis  not  enough,  that  Greek  or  Roman  page, 
At  stated  hours,  his  freakish  thoughts  engage; 
E'en  in  his  pastimes  he  requires  a  friend, 
To  warn,  and  teach  him  safely  to  unbend; 
O'er  all  his  pleasures  gently  to  preside, 
Watch  his  emotions,  ana  confrol  their  tide; 
And  levying  thus,  and  with  an  easy  sway, 
A  tax  of  profit  from  his  very  play, 
T'impress  a  value,  not  to  be  eras'd, 


808  TIROCINIUM:  OR, 

On  moments  squander'd  else,  and  running  all  to  waste. 

And  seems  it  nothing  in  c'i  father's  eye, 

That  unimprov'd  those  many  moments  fly? 

And  is  he  well  content  his  son  should  find 

No  nourishment  to  feed  his  growing  mind 

But  conjugated  verbs,  and  nouns  declin'd? 

For  such  is  all  the  mental  food  purvey'd 

JRy  public  hackneys  in  the  schooling  trade ; 

Who  feed  a  pupil's  intellect  with  store 

Of  syntax,  truly,  but  with  little  more  ; 

Dismiss  their  cares,  when  they  dismiss  their  flock, 

Machines  themselves,  and  governed  by  a  clock. 

Perhaps  a  father,  blest  with  any  brains, 

Would  deem  it  no  abuse,  or  waste  of  pains, 

T'improve  this  diet,  at  no  great  expense, 

With  sav'ry  truth  and  wholesome  common  sense  ; 

To  lead  his  son,  for  prospects  of  delight, 

To  some  not  steep,  though  philosophic,  height, 

Thence  to  exhibit  to  his  wond'ring-eyes 

Yon  circling  worlds,  their  distance,  and  their  size  ; 

The  moons  of  Jove,  and  Saturn's  belted  ball, 

And  the  harmonious  order  of  them  all ; 

To  show  him  in  an  insect  or  a  flow'r 

Such  microscopic  proof  of  skill  and  pow'r, 

As,  hid  from  ages  past,  God  now  displays, 

To  combat  atheists  with  in  modern  days  ; 

To  spread  the  earth  before  him,  and  commend, 

With  designation  of  the  finger's  end, 

Its  various  parts  to  his  attentive  note, 

Thus  bringing  home  to  him  the  most  remote  ; 

To  teach  his  heart  to  glow  with  gen'rous  flame. 

Caught  from  the  deeds  of  men  of  ancient  fame: 

And,  more  than  all,  with  commendation  due, 

To  set  some  living  worthy  in  his  view, 

Whose  fair  example  may  at  once  inspire 

A  wish  to  copy  what  he  must  admire. 

Such  knowledge  gain'd  betimes,  and  which  appears, 

Though  solid,  not  too  weighty  for  his  years, 

Sweet  in  itself,  and  not  forbidding  sport, 

When  health  demands  it,  of  athletic  sort, 

Would  make  him — what  some  lovely  boys  have  been, 

And  more  than  one  perhaps  that  I  have  seen — 

An  evidence  and  reprehension  both 

Of  the  mere  schoolboy's  lean  and  tardy  growth. 

Art  thou  a  man  professionally  tied, 
With  all  thy  faculties  elsewhere  applied, 
Too  busy  to  intend  a  meaner  care, 
Thau  how  t'enrich  thyself,  and  next  thine  heir ; 


A    REVIEW    OF    SCHOOLS.  309 

Or  art  tliou  tas  though  rich,  perhaps  thou  art) 

But  poor  in  knowledge,  having  none  t'impnrt:— • 

Behold  that  figure,  neat,  though  plainly  cl;id  ; 

His  sprightly  mingled  with  a  shade  of  sad  ; 

Not  of  a  nimble  tongue,  though  now  and  then 

Heard  to  articulate  like  other  men  ; 

No  jester,  and  yet  lively  in  discourse, 

His  phrase  well  chosen,  clear,  and  full  of  force ; 

And  his  address,  if  not  quite  French  in  ease, 

Not  English  stiff,  but  frank,  and  form'd  to  please | 

Low  in  the  world,  because  he  scorns  its  arts  ; 

A  man  of  letters,  manners,  morals,  parts ; 

Unpatroniz'd,  and  therefore  little  known; 

Wise  for  himself  and  his  few  friends  alone — 

In  him  thy  well-appointed  proxy  see, 

Arm'd  for  a  work  too  difficult  for  thee ; 

Prepar'd  by  taste,  by  learning,  and  true  worth, 

To  form  thy  son,  to  strike  his  genius  forth ; 

Beneath  thy  roof,  beneath  thine  eye,  to  prove 

The  force  of  discipline,  when  back  d  by  love; 

To  double  all  thy  pleasure  in  thy  child, 

His  mind  inform'd,  his  morals  undefiTd. 

Safe  under  such  a  wing,  the  boy  shall  show 

No  spots  contracted  among  grooms  below, 

Nor  taint  his  speech  with  meannesses,  design'd 

By  footman  Tom  for  witty  and  refin'd. 

There,  in  his  commerce  with  the  liv'ried  herd, 

Lurks  the  contagion  chiefly  to  be  fear'd  ; 

For  since  (so  fashion  dictates)  a'l,  who  claim 

A  higher  than  a  mere  plebeian  fame, 

Find  it  expedient,  come  what  mischief  may, 

To  entertain  a  thief  or  two  in  pay, 

(And  they  that  can  afford  th'expense  of  more, 

Some  half  a  doze.i,  and  some  half  a  score,) 

Great  cause  occurs,  to  save  him  from  a  band 

So  sure  to  spoil  him,  and  so  near  at  hand  ; 

A  point  secur'd,  if  once  he  be  supplied 

With  some  such  Mentor  always  at  his  side. 

Are  such  men  rare  ?  perhaps  they  would  abound, 

Were  occupation  easier  to  be  found, 

Were  education,  else  so  sure  to  fail, 

Conducted  on  a  manageable  scale, 

And  schools,  that  have  outliv'd  all  just  esteem, 

Exchan^'d  for  the  secure  domestic  scheme. — 

But,  having  found  him,  be  thou  duke  or  earl, 

Show  thou  hast  sense  enough  to  prize  the  pearl, 

And,  as  thou  wouldst  th'advancement  of  thine  heir 

In  all  good  faculties  beneath  his  care, 

Respect,  as  is  but  rational  and  just, 


810  TIROCINIUM  :    OR 

A  man  deem'd  worthy  of  so  dear  a  trust. 
Despis'd  by  thee,  what  more  can  he  expect 
From  youthful  folly  than  the  same  neglect ; 
A  flat  and  fatal  negative  obtains 
That  instant  upon  all  his  future  pains; 
His  lessons  tire,  his  mild  rebukes  offend, 
And  all  th'instructions  of  thy  son's  best  friend 
Are  a  stream  chok'd,  or  trickling  to  no  end. 
Doom  him  not  then  to  solitary  meals  ; 
But  recollect  that,  he  has  sense,  and  feels; 
And  that,  possessor  of  a  soul  refin'd, 
An  upright  heart,  and  cultivated  mind, 
His  post  not  mean,  his  talents  not  unknown, 
He  deems  it  hard  to  vegetate  alone. 
And,  if  admitted  at  thy  board  he  sit, 
Account  him  no  just  mark  for  idle  wit ; 
Offend  not  him,  whom  modesty  restrains 
From  repartee,  with  jokes  that  he  disdains; 
Much  less  transfix  his  feelings  with  an  oath  ; 
Nor  frown,  unless  he  vanish  with  the  cloth. — 
And,  trust  me,  his  utility  may  reach 
To  more  than  he  is  hir'd  or  bound  to  teach  ; 
Much  trash  unuter'd.  and  some  ills  undone, 
Through  rev'rence  of  the  censor  of  thy  son. 

But,  if  thy  table  be  indeed  unclean, 
Foul  vvith  excess,  and  with  discourse  obscene, 
And  thou  a  wretch,  wh'»m,  foll'wing  her  old  plan 
The  world  accounts  an  nonorable  man, 
Because  forsooth  thy  courage  has  been  tried, 
<\.nd  stood  the  test  perhaps  on  the  wrong  side  ; 
Though  thou  hatlst  never  grace  enough  to  prove 
That  any  tiling  hut  vice  could  win  thy  love  ; — 
Or  hast  thou  a  polite,  caid-playing  wife, 
Chain'd  to  the  routs  that  she  frequents  for  life; 
Who,  just  when  industry  begins  to  snore, 
Flies,  wing'd  with  joy,  to  some  coach-crowded  door  j 
And  thrice  in  ev'ry  winter  throngs  thine  own 
With  half  the  chariots  and  sedans  in  town, 
Thyself  meanwhile  e'en  shifting  as  thou  mayst ; 
Not  very  sober  though,  nor  very  chaste; 
Or  is  thine  house,  though  less  superb  thy  rank, 
If  not  a  scene  of  pleasure,  a  mere  blank, 
And  thou  at  best,  and  in  thy  sob'rest  mood, 
A  tritier  vaiu,  and  empty  of  all  good  ; 
Though  mercy  for  thyself  thou  canst  have  none, 
Hear  nature  plead,  show  mercy  to  thy  son. 
Sav'd  from  his  home,  where  ev'ry  day  brings  forth 
Some  mischief  fatal  to  his  future  worth, 
Find  him  a  better  in  a  distant  spot, 


A     RF.VTTW    O"7    .SCHOOLS.  311 

some  pious  p.isto.-'s  humble  cot, 
V>  here  vile  example  (yours  I  chiefly  mean, 
The  most  seducing,  and  the  of. 'nest  seen) 
May  never  more  be  stamp'd  upon  his  breast, 
Not  yet  perhaps  incurably  impress'd. 
Where  early  rest  makes  early  rising  sure, 
Disease  or  conies  not.  or  finds  easy  cure, 
Prevented  much  by  diet  neat  and  plain  ; 
(  r,  if  it  enter,  so<ui  starv'd  out  ng-iin  : 
V  here  all  th'attention  of  his  faithful  host, 
Liscreetly  limited  to  two  at  most, 
May  raise  such  fruits  as  shall  reward  his  c  ire, 
And  not  at  last  evaporate  in  air  : 
\\  here,  stillness  aidipg  study,  and  his  mind 
Serene,  and  to  his  duties  much  inclin'd, 
Not  occupied  in  day-dreams,  as  at  home, 
Of  pleasures  past,  or  follies  yet  to  come, 
His  virtuous  toil  may  terminate  at  last 
In  settled  habit  and  decided  taste — 
But  whom  do  I  advise  ?  the  fashion-led, 
Th'incorrigibly  young,  the  deaf,  the  dead, 
V  horn  care  and  cool  deliberation  suit 
Not  better  much  than  spectacles  a  brute  ; 
\A  ho,  if  their  sons  some  slight  tuition  share, 
Deem  it  of  no  great  moment  whose,  or  where  ; 
Too  proud  t'adopt  the  thoughts  of  one  unknown, 
And  much  too  gay  t'have  any  of  tla-ir  own. 
Put  courage,  man  !  methought  the  muse  replied, 
Mankind  are  various,  and  the  world  is  wide  : 
The  ostrich,  silliest  of  the  feather'd  kind, 
And  form'd  of  God  without  a  parent's  m;nd, 
Commits  her  eggs  incautious  to  the  dust, 
Forgetful  that  the  foot  may  crush  the  trust  • 
And,  while  on  public  nurs'ries  they  rely. 
Not  knowing,  and  too  oft  not  caring,  why, 
Irrational  in  what  they  thus  prefer, 
No  few,  that  would  seem  wise,  re&emble  her. 
But  all  are  not  alike.     Thy  warning  voice 
May  here  and  there  prevent  erroneous  cho'ice ; 
And  some  perhaps,  who,  busy  as  they  are, 
Yet  make  their  progeny  their  dearest  care, 

Whose  hearts  will  ache,  once  told  what  ills  may  rea-1: 
Their  offspring,  left  upon  so  wild  a  beach,) 
V  ill  need  no  stress  of  argument  t'enforce 
Th'expedience  of  a  less  advent'rous  course: 
The  rest  will  slight  thy  counsel,  or  condemn; 
But  they  have  human  fVelings.  turn  to  tin- HI. 
To  you  then,  tenants  ot'lii'e's  middle  state, 
Securely  plac'd  between  the  small  aud  great, 


TIROCINIUM:  on, 

Whose  character,  yet  undebauch'd,  retting 

Two  thirds  of  all  the  virtue  that  remains, 

Who,  wise  yourselves,  desire  your  son  should  learn 

Your  wisdom  and  your  ways — to  you  I  turn. 

Look  round  you  on  a  world  perversely  blind ; 

See  what  contempt  is  fall'ii  on  humankind  ; 

See  wealth  abus'd,  and  dignities  misplac'd, 

Gr.-at  titles,  offices,  and  trusts  di  grac'd, 

Long  lines  of  ancestry,  renown'd  of  old, 

Their  noble  qualities  all  qiunch'd  and  cold; 

See  Bedlam's  closetted  and  hand-cuff  d  chaige 

Surpass'd  in  frenzy  by  the  mad  at  large  ; 

See  great  commanders  making  war  a  trade, 

Great  lawyers,  lawyers  without  study  made  ; 

Churchmen,  in  whose  esteem  their  best  employ 

Is  odious,  and  their  wages  all  their  joy, 

Who,  far  enough  from  furnishing  their  shelves 

With  Gospel  lore,  turn  infidels  themselves  ; 

See  womanhood  despis'd,  and  manhood  sham'd 

With  infamy  too  nauseous  to  be  nam'd, 

Fops  at  al!  corners,  lady-like  in  mien, 

Civetted  fellows,  smelt  ere  tney  are  seen, 

Else  coarse  and  rude  in  manners,  and  their  tongue 

On  fire  with  curses,  and  with  nonsense  hung, 

Now  flush'd  with  drunk'nness,  now  with  whoredom  pale, 

Their  breath  a  sample  of  last  night's  regale  ; 

See  volunteers  in  all  the  vilest  arts, 

Men  well  endow'd,  of  honorable  parts, 

Design'd  by  Nature  wise,  but  self-made  fools  . 

All  these,  and  more  like  these,  were  bred  at  schools. 

And  if  it  chance,  as  sometimes  chance  it  will, 

That  though  school-bred,  the  boy  be  virtuous  still ; 

Such  rare  exceptions,  shining  in  the  dark, 

Prove,  rather  than  impeach,  the  just  remark: 

As  here  and  there  a  twinKiing  star  descried 

Serves  but  to  show  how  black  is  all  beside. 

Now  look  on  him,  whose  very  voice  in  tone 

Just  echoes  thine,  whose  features  are  thine  own, 

And  stroke  his  polish'd  cheek  of  purest  red, 

And  lay  thine  hand  upon  his  flaxen  head, 

And  say,  My  boy,  th'unwelcome  hour  is  come, 

When  thou,  transplanted  from  thy  genial  home, 

Must  rind  a  colder  soil  and  bleaker  air, 

And  trust  for  safety  to  a  stranger's  care; 

What  character,  what  turn  thou  wilt  assume 

From  constant  converse  with  1  know  not  whom  ; 

Who  there  will  court  thy  friendship  'vith  what  views. 

And,  artless  as  thou  art,  whom  thou  wilt  choose 

Though  much  depends  on  what  thy  choice  shall  be, 


A    REVIEW    OF    SCHOOLS.  313 

Is  all  chance-medley,  and  unknown  to  me. 

Canst  thou,  the  tear  just  trembling-  on  tliy  lids, 

And  while  the  dreadful  risk  foreseen  forbids, 

Free  too,  and  under  no  constraining  force, 

Unless  the  sway  of  custom  warp  thy  course ; 

Lay  such  a  stake  upon  the  losing  side, 

Merely  to  gratify  so  blhid  a  guide? 

Thou  canst  not!    Nature,  pulling  at  thine  heart 

Condemns  th'unfatheily,  th'imprudent  part. 

Thou  wouldst  not,  deaf  to  Nature's  tend'rest  plea, 

Turn  him  adrift  upon  a  rolling  sea, 

Nor  say,  Go  thither,  conscious  that  there  lay 

A  brood  of  asps,  or  quicksands  in  his  way  ; 

Then,  only  g  >vern'd  by  the  self -same  rule 

Of  nat'ral  pity,  send  him  not  to  school. 

No — guard  him  better.      Is  lie  not  thine  own, 

Thyself  in  miniature,  thy  flesh,  thy  bone? 

And  hop'st  thou  not  ('tis  ev'ry  father's  hope) 

That,  since  thy  strength  must  with  thy  years  elope, 

And  thou  w  It  need  some  comfort,  to  assuage 

Health's  last  farewell,  a  staff  of  thine  old  age, 

That  then,  in  recompense  of  all  thy  cares, 

Thy  child  shall  show  respect  to  thy  gray  hairs, 

Befriend  thee,  of  all  other  friends  bereft, 

And  give  thy  life  its  only  cordial  left  ? 

Aware  then  how  much  danger  intervenes, 

To  compass  that  good  end,  forecast  the  means. 

His  heart,  now  passive,  yields  to  thy  command; 

Secure  it  thine,  its  key  is  in  thine  hand. 

If  thou  desert  thy  chavge,  and  throw  it  wide, 

Nor  heed  what  guests  there  enter  and  abide, 

Complain  not  if  attachments  lewd  and  base 

Supplant  thee  in  it,  and  usurp  thy  place. 

But,  if  thou  guard  its  sacred  chambers  sure 

From  vicious  inmates,  and  delights  impure, 

Either  his  gratitude  shall  hold  him  fast, 

And  keep  him  warm  and  filial  to  the  last; 

Or,  if  he  prove  unkind  (as  who  can  say 

But,  being  man,  and  therefore  frail,  he  may  ?), 

One  comfort  yet  shall  cheer  thine  aged  heart, 

Howe'er  he  slight  thee,  th<.  u  hast  done  thy  part. 

Oli,  barb'rous  !    wouldst  thou  with  a  Gothic  hand 
Pull  down  the  schools — what! — all  rhj  schools  i'th'landj 
Or  throw  them  up  to  liv'ry-nags  and  grooms, 
Or  tarn,  them  into  shops  and  auction  rooms? — 
A  captious  question,  sir  (and  yours  is  one), 
Deserves  an  answer  similar,  or  none. 
Wouldst  thou,  possessor  or  a  flock,  empioy 
(Appris'd  that  he  is*such)  a  cureless  boy, 

2  E 


514  TIROCINIUM  :    &C. 

And  feed  him  well,  and  give  him  handsome   pay, 

Merely  to  sleep,  and  let  them  run  astray  1 

Survey  our  schools  and  colleges,  and  see 

A  sight  not  much  unlike  my  simile. 

From  education,  as  the  leading  cause, 

The  public  character  its  color  draws  ; 

Thence  the  prevailing  manners  take  their  cast, 

Extravagant  or  sober,  loose  or  chaste. 

And,  though  I  would  not  advertise  them  yet, 

Nor  write  on  each — Tliis  building  to  b«  let, 

Unless  the  world  were  all  prepar'd  t'embrace 

A  plan  well  worthy  to  supply  their  place  ; 

Yet,  backward  as  they  are,  and  long  have  been, 

To  cultivate  and  keep  the  morals  clean, 

(Forgive  the  crime)  I  wish  them,  1  confess, 

Or  better  manag'd,  or  encourajf'd 


TO  THE  REVEREND  MR.  NEWTON. 


AN  INVITATION  INTO  THE  COUNTRY. 

The  swallows  in  their  torpid  state 
Compose  their  useless  wing, 

And  bees  in  hives  as  idly  wait 
The  call  of  early  Spring. 

The  keenest  frost  that  binds  the  stream, 
The  wildest  wind  that  blows, 

Are  neither  felt  nor  fear'd  by  them, 
Secure  of  their  repose. 

But  man,  all  feeling  and  awake, 

The  gloomy  scene  surveys  ; 
With  present  ills  his  heart  must  ache, 

And  pant  for  brighter  days. 

Old  Winter,  halting  o'er  the  mead, 

Bids  me  anil  Mary  mourn  ; 
But  lovely  Spring  peeps  o'er  his  head, 

And  whispers  your  return. 

Then  April,  with  her  sister  May, 
Shall  chase  him  from  the  bow'rs, 

And  weave  fresh  garlands  ev'ry  day, 
To  crown  the  smiling  hours. 

And  if  a  tear,  that  speaks  regret 

Of  happier  times,  appear, 
A  glimpse  of  joy,  that  we  have  mej, 

tikail  thine  wad  dry  the  tea;-. 


CATHAR1NA. 

ADDRESSED    TO    MISS    STAPLETON, 
(NOW    MRS.    COURTNEY.) 

She  came — she  is  gone — we  have  met — 

And  meet  perhaps  never  again  ; 
The  sun  of  that  moment  is  set, 

And  seems  to  have  risen  in  vain. 
Catliarina  lias  fled  like  a  dream — 

(So  vanishes  pleasure,  alas!) 
But  has  left  a  regret  and  esteem, 

That  will  not  so  suddenly  pass. 

The  last  evening1  ramble  we  made, 

Catharina,  Maria,  and  I, 
Our  progress  was  often  delay'd 

By  the  nightingale  warbling  nigh. 
We  paus'd  under  many  a  tree, 

And  much  she  was  charm'd  with  a  tone- 
Less  sweet  to  Maria  and  me, 

Who  so  lately  had  witness'd  her  own. 

My  numbers  that  day  she  had  sung, 

And  gave  them  a  grace  so  divine, 
As  only  her  musical  tongue 

Could  infuse  into  numbers  of  mine. 
The  longer  I  heard,  1  esteem'd 

The  work  of  my  fancy  the  more, 
And  e'en  to  myself  never  seem'd 

So  tuneful  a  poet  before. 

Though  the  pleasures  of  London  exceed 

In  number  the  days  of  the  year, 
Catharina,  did  nothing  impede, 

Would  fetil  herself  happier  here; 
For  the  close-woven  arches  of  limes 

On  the  banks  of  our  river,  1  know, 
Are  sweeter  to  her  many  times 

Than  aught  that  the  city  can  show. 


317 

So  it  is,  when  the  mind  is  endu'd 

With  a  well-judging  taste  from  above; 
Then,  whether  embellish'd  or  rude, 

'Tis  nature  alone  that  we  love. 
The  achievements  of  art  may  amuse, 

May  even  our  wonder  excite, 
But  groves,  hills,  and  valleys,  diffuse 

A  lasting,  a  sacred  delight. 

Sin ^e  then  in  the  rural  recess 

Catharina  alone  can  rejoice, 
May  it  still  be  her  lot  to  possess 

The  scene  of  her  sensible  choice  J 
To  inhabit  a  mansion  remote 

From  the  cl.ttter  of  street -pacing  steeds, 
And  by  Philomel's  annual  note 

To  measure  the  life  that  she  leads. 

With  her  book,  and  her  voice,  and  her  lyre, 

To  wing  all  her  moments  at  home ; 
And  with  scenes  that  new  rapture  inspire, 

As  oft  as  it  suits  her  to  roam  ; 
She  will  have  just  the  life  she  prefers, 

With  Jittle  to  hope  or  to  fear, 
And  ours  would  be  pleasant  as  hers, 

Might  we  view  her  enjoying  it  here. 


THE  MORALIZER  CORRECTED 

A    TALE. 

A  hermit,  (or  if  'chance  you  hold 
That  title  now  too  trite  and  old) 
A  man,  once  young,  who  liv'd  retir'd 
As  hermit  could  have  well  desir'd, 
His  hours  of  study  clos'd  at  last, 
And  finish 'd  his  concise  repast, 
Stoppled  his  cruise,  replac'd  his  book 
Within  its  customary  nook, 
And,  staff  in  hand,  set  forth  to  share 
The  sober  cordial  of  sweet  air, 
Like  Isaac,  with  ..  mind  applied 
To  serious  thought  at  ev'mngtide. 
2  E  2 


SIS 

Autumnal  rains  had  made  it  chill, 

And  from  the  trees,  that  fring'd  his  hill, 

Shades  slanting  at  the  close  of  day 

Chill'd  more  his  else  delightful  way. 

Distant^  little  mile  he  spied 

A  western  bank's  still  sunny  side, 

And  right  toward  the  favor'd  place 

Proceeding  with  his  nimblest  pace, 

In  hope  to  bask  a  little  yet, 

Just  reach'd  it  when  the  sun  was  set. 

Your  hermit,  young  and  jovial  sirs  ! 
Learns  something  from  whate'er  occurs — 
And  hence,  he  said,  my  mind  computes 
The  real  worth  of  man's  pursuits. 
His  object  chosen,  wealth  or  fame, 
Or  other  sublunary  game 
Imagination  to  his  view 
Presents  it  deck'd  with  ev'ry  hue, 
That  can  seduce  him  not  to  spare 
His  pow'rs  of  best  exertion  there, 
But  youth,  health,  vigor  to  expend 
On  so  desirable  an  end. 
Ere  long  approach  life's  ev'ning  shades, 
The  glow,  that  fancy  gave  it,  fades  ; 
And,  earn'd  too  late,  it  wants  the  grace 
That  first  engag'd  him  in  the  chase. 

True,  answer'd  an  angelic  guide, 
Attendant  at  the  senior's  side — 
But  whether  all  the  time  it  cost, 
To  urge  the  fruitless  chase  be  lost, 
Musi  be  decided  by  the  worth 
Of  that,  which  call'd  his  ardor  forth. 
Trifles  pursu'd,  whate'er  th'  event, 
Must  cause  him  shame  or  discontent , 
A  vicious  object  still  is  worse, 
Successful  there  he  wins  a  curse  ; 
But  he,  whom  e'en  in  life's  last  stage 
Endeavors  laudable  engage, 
Is  paid,  at  least  in  peace  of  mind, 
And  sense  of  having  well  design'd  ; 
And  if,  ere  he  attain  his  end, 
His  sun  precipitate  descend, 
A  brighter  prize  than  that  he  meant 
Shall  recompense  his  mere  intent. 
No  virtuous  wish  can  bear  a  date 
Either  too  early  or  too  lato 


319 


THE  FAITHFUL  BIRD. 


The  greenhouse  is  my  summer  seat; 
My  shrubs  displ.ic'd  from  that  retreat 

Enjoy'd  the  open  air  ; 
Two  goldfinches,  whose  sprightly  song 
Had  been  their  mutual  solace  long, 

Liv'd  happy  pris'ners  there. 

They  sang,  as  blythe  as  finches  sing, 
That  flutter  loose  on  golden  wing, 

And  frolic  where  they  list ; 
Strangers  to  liberty,  'tis  true, 
But  that  delight  they  never  knew 

And  therefore  never  iniss'd. 

But  nature  works  in  ev'ry  breast,  - 
With  force  not  easily  suppress'd  ;- 

And  Dick  felt  some  desires, 
That,  after  many  an  effort  vain, 
Instructed  him  at  length  to  gain 

A  pass  between  his  wires. 

The  open  widows  seem'd  t*  invite 
The  freeman  to  a  farewell  flight ; 

But  Tom  was  still  confin'd  ; 
And  Dick,  although  his  way  wai  clear 
Was  much  too  gen'rous  and  sincere, 

To  leave  his  friend  behind. 

So  settling  on  his  cage,  by  play, 
And  chirp,  and  kiss,  he  seem'd  to  say, 

Ycu  must  not  live  alone — 
Nor  would  he  quit  that  chosen  stand 
Till  1,  with  slow  and  cautious  hand, 

Return'd  him  to  his  own. 

O  ye,  who  never  taste  the  joys 
Of  Friendship,  satisfied  with  noise, 

Fandango,  ball,  and  rout! 
Blush,  when  I  tell  you  how  a  bird, 
A  prison  with  a  friend  preferr'd 

To  liberty  without. 


820 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 


A    TALE. 

• 


There  is  a  field,  through  which  T  often  pass, 
Thick  overspread  with  moss  and  silky  grass, 
Adjoining  close  to  Kilwick's  echoing  wood, 
Where  oft  the  hitch-fox  hides  her  hapless  brood, 
Reserv'd  to  solace  many  a  neighb'ring  squire, 
That  he  may  follow  them  through  brake  and  brier 
Contusion  hazarding  of  neck,  or  spine, 
Which  rural  gentlemen  call  sport  divine. 
A  narrow  brook,  by  rushy  hanks  conce;;l'd, 
Runs  in  a  bottom,  and  divides  the  field  ; 
Oaks  insterperse  it,  that  had  once  a  head, 
But  now  wear  crests  of  oven-wood  instead  ; 
And  where  the  land  slopes  to  its  wat'ry  bourn, 
Wide  yawns  a  gulf  beside  a  ragged  thorn  ; 
Bricks  line  the  sides,  but  shiver'd  long  ago, 
And  horrid  brambles  intertwine  below  ; 
A  hollow  scoop'd,  I  judge,  in  ancient  time, 
For  baking  earth,  or  burning  rock  to  lime. 

Not  yet  the  hawthorn  bore  her  berries  red, 
With  which  the  fieldfare,  wintry  guest,  is  fed  ; 
Nor  Autumn  yet  had  brush'd  from  ev'ry  spray, 
With  her  chill  hand,  the  mellow  leaves  away; 
But  corn  was  hous'd,  and  beans  were  in  the  stack, 
Now  therefore  issu'd  forth  the  spotted  pack, 
Wiih  tails  high  mounted,  ears  hung  low,  and  throats, 
With  a  whole  gamut  fill'd  of  heavenly  notes, 
For  which,  alas!  my  destiny  severe, 
Though  ears  she  gave  me  two,  gave  me  no  ear 

The  Sun,  accomplishing  his  earlv  march, 
His  lamp  now  planted  on  Heav'ns  topmost  arch, 
When,  exercise  and  air  my  only  aim, 
And  heedless  whither,  to  that  field  I  came 
Ere  yet  with  ruthless  joy  the  happy  hound 
Told  hUl  and  dale  that  Reynard's  track  was  found, 
Or  with  the  high-rais'd  horn's  melodious  clang 
All  Kilwick  and  all  Dinglederry*  rang. 

Sheep  gra/'d  the  field  ;  some  with  soft  bosom  press'd 
The  herb  as  soft,  while  nibbling  stray'd  the  rest 
Nor  noise  was  heard  but  of  the  hasty  brook, 


•  Two  woods  l»«J<»ngl«*  |a  J«h«  Tturockmorton,  Esq. 


321 

Struggling,  detain'cl  in  many  a  petty  nook. 

All  seein'd  so  peaceful,  that,  from  them  convey'd, 

To  me  their  peace  by  kind  contagion  spread. 

But  when  the  huntsman,  with  distended  cheek, 
'Can  make  his  instrument  of  music  speak, 
And  from  within  the  wood  that  crash  was  heard, 
Though  not  a  hound  from  whom  it  burst  appear'd, 
The  sheep  recumbent,  and  the  sheep  that  graz'd, 
All  huddling  into  phalanx,  stood  and  gaz'd, 
Admiring,  terrified,  the  novel  strain, 
Then  cours'd  the  field  around,  and  cours'd  it  round 

again  ; 

But,  recollecting  with  a  sudden  thought, 
that  flight  in  circles  urg'd,  advanced  them  nought, 
They  gather'd  close  around  the  old  pit's  brink, 
And  thought  again — but  knew  not  what  to  think. 

The  mail  to  solitude  accustom'd  long 
Perceives  in  ev'ry  thing  that  lives  a  tongue; 
Not  animals  alone,  but  shrubs  and  trees_ 
Have  speech  for  him,  and  understood  with  ease; 
After  long  drought,  when  rains  abundant  fall, 
He  hears  the  herbs  and  flow'rs  rejoicing  all ; 
Knows  what  the  freshness  of  their  hue  implies, 
How  glad  they  catch  the  largess  of  the  skies ; 
But,  with  precision  nicer  still,  the  mind 
He  scans  of  ev'ry  locomotive  kind  ; 
Birds  of  all  feather,  beasts  of  ev'ry  name, 
Thiit  serve  mankind,  or  shun  them,  wild  or  tame  ; 
The  looks  and  gestures  of  their  griefs  and  fears 
Have  all  articulation  in  his  ears  ; 
He  spells  them  true  by  intuition's  light, 
And  needs  no  glossary  to  set  him  right. 

This  truth  premis'd  was  needful  as  a  text, 
To  win  due  credence  to  what  follows  next. 

A  while  they  imis'd  ;  surveying  ev'ry  face, 
Thou  hadst  suppos'd  them  of  superior  race  ; 
Their  periwigs  of  wool,  and  fears  combin'd, 
Stamp' d  on  each  countenance  such  marks  of  mind, 
That  sage  they  seem'd,  as  lawyer's  o'er  a  doubt, 
Which,  puz/.ling  long,  at  last  they  puzzle  out; 
Or  academic  tutors,  teaching  youths, 
Sure  ne'er  to  want  them,  mathematic  truths ; 
When  thus  a  mutton,  statelier  than  the  rest, 
A  ram,  the  ewes  and  wethers  sad  address'd. 

Friends  !   we  have  liv'd  too  long.     I  never  heard 
Sounds  such  as  these,  so  worthy  to  be  fear'd. 
Could  I  believe,  that  winds  for  ages  pent 
In  earth's  dark  womb  have  found  at  last  a  vent, 
And  from  their  prison-house  below  arise, 


822 

With  all  these  hideous  howlings  to  the  skies, 
I  could  be  much  compos' d  nor  should  appear, 
For  such  a  cause,  to  feel  the  slightest  fear. 
Yourselves  have  seen,  what  time  the  thunders  roll'd 
All  night,  me  resting  quiet  in  the  fold. 
Or  heard  we  that  tremendous  bray  alone, 
I  could  expound  the  melancholy  tjrie ; 
Should  deem  it  by  our  old  companion  made, 
The  ass;  for  he,  we  know,  has  lately  stray'd, 
And  being  lost  perhaps,  and  wamFring  wide, 
Might  be  suppos'd  to  clamour  for  a  guide. 
But  ah  !   those  dieadt'ul  yells  what  soul  can  hear 
That  owns  a  carcass,  and  not  quake  for  fear  ? 
Demons  produce  them  doubtless,  brazen-claw'd 
And  fang'd  with  brass  the  demons  are  abroad  ; 
I  hold  it  therefore  wisest  and  most  fit, 
That,  life  to  save,  we  leap  into  the  pit. 

Him  answer' d  then  his  loving  mate  and  true, 
But  more  discreet  than  he,  a  Cambrian  ewe. 

How?   leap  into  the  pit  our  life  to  save? 
To  save  our  life  leap  all  into  the  grave  ? 
For  can  we  find  it  less?     Contemplate  first, 
The  depth  how  awful !   falling  there,  we  burst : 
Or  should  the  brambles,  inierpos'd,  our  fall 
In  part  abate,  that  happiness  were  small ; 
For  with  a  race  like  theirs  no  chanc^  I  see 
Of  peace  or  ease  to  creatures  ciad  as  we. 
Meantime,  noise  kills  not.      Be  it  Dapple's  bray, 
Or  be  it  not,  or  be  it  whose  it  may, 
uid  rusli  those  other_  sounds,  that  seem  by  tongues 
Of  demons  utter'd,  from  whatever  lungs, 
Sounds  are  but  sounds  ;  and,  till  the  cause  appear, 
We  have  at  least  commodious  standing  here. 
Come  fiend,  come  fury,  giant,  monster,  blast 
From  earth  or  hell,  we  can  but  plunge  at  last. 

While  thus  she  spake,  1  fainter  heard  the  peals, 
For  Reynard,  close  attended  at  his  heels 
Ry  panting  dog,  tir'd  man,  and  spatter'd  horse, 
Through  mere  good  fortune,  took  a  ditPrent  course. 
The  Hock  grew  calm  again ;  and  I,  the  road 
Foll'wiiig,  that  led  me  to  my  own  abode, 
Much  wonder'd,  that  the  silly  sheep  had  found 
Such  cause  of  terror  in  an  empty  sound, 
So  sweet  to  huntsman,  gentleman,  and  hound. 

MORAL. 

Beware  of  desp'rate  steps.     The  darkest  day, 
Live  till  to-morrow,  will  have  pass'd  away. 


BOADICEA 


AN    ODE. 


When  the  British  warrior  queen, 
Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods, 

Sought,  with  an  indignant  mien, 
Counsel  of  her  country's  gods, 

Sage,  beneath  the  spreading  oak 
Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  chief; 

Ev'ry  burning-  word  he  spoke 
Full  of  rage,  and  full  of  grief. 

Princess!  if  our  aged  eyes 

Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 
'Tis  because  resentment  ties 

All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

Rome  shall  perish — write  that  word 
In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt ; 

Perish,  hopeless  and  abhorr'd, 
Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

Rome,  for  empire  far  renown'd, 
Tramples  on  a  thousand  states  ; 

Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground- 
Hark  !  the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates! 

Other  Romans  shall  arise, 
Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name; 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  priz* 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

Then  the  progeny  that  springs 
From  the  forests  of  our  land, 

Arm  d  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings, 
Shall  a  wider  world  command. 


32-4 

Regions  Caesar  never  kiew 
Thy  posterity  shall  sway  ; 

Where  his  eagles  never  flew, 
None  invincible  as  they. 

Such  the  bard's  prophetic  words. 
Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 

Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 
Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She,  with  all  a  monarch's  pride, 
Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow : 

Rush'd  to  battle,  fought  and  died 
Dying  hurl'd  them  at  the  foe. 

Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud, 
Heav'n  awards  the  vengeance 

Empire  is  on  us  bestow'd, 
Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you. 


HEROISM. 


There  was  a  time  when  Etna's  silent  fire 
Slept  unperceiv'd,  the  mountain  yet  entire  ; 
"When,  conscious  of  no  danger  from  below, 
8he  tower'd  a  cloud-capt  pyramid  of  snow. 
IS'o  thunders  shook  with  deep  intestine  sound 
The  blooming  groves,  that  girdled  her  around. 
Her  unctuous  olives,  and  her  purple  vines 
(Unfelt  the  fury  of  those  bursting  mines) 
The  peasant's  hopes,  and  not  in  vair.,  assur'd, 
In  peace  upon  her  sloping  sides  matur'd. 
When  on  a  day,  like  that  of  the  last  doom, 
A  conflagration  lab' ring  in  her  womb, 
She  teem'dand  heav'd  with  an  infernal  birth, 
That  shook  the  circling  seas  and  solid  earth. 
Dark  and  voluminous  the  vapours  rise, 
And  hang  their  horrors  in  the  neighb'ring  skies, 
While  through  the  Stygian  veil,  that  hlots  the  day, 
In  dazzling  streaks  the  vivid  lightnings  play. 


325 

But  oh  !  what  muse,  and  in  what  pow'rs  of  song, 

Can  trace  the  torrent  as  it  burns  along; 

Havoc  and  devastation  in  the  van, 

It  marches  o'er  the  prostrate  works  of  man ; 

Vines,  olives,  herbage,  forests  disappear, 

And  all  the  charms  of  a  Sicilian  year. 

Revolving  seasons,  fruitless  as  they  pass, 
See  it  an  uninforni'd  and  idle  mass ; 
\Yithout  a  soil  t'invito  the  tiller's  cnre, 
Or  blade,  that  might  redeem  it  from  despair. 
Yet  time  at  length  (what  will  not  time  achieve?) 
Clothes  it  with  earth,  and  bids  the  produce  live. 
Once  more  the  spiry  myrtle  crowns  the  glade, 
And  ruminating  flocks  enjoy  the  shade. 
O  oliss  precarious,  and  unsafe  retreats, 
O  charming  Paradise  of  short-liv'd  sweets! 
The  self-same  gale,  that  wafts  the  fragrance  round, 
Brings  to  the  distant  ear  a  sullen  sound  : 
Again  the  mountain  feels  th'impvison'd  toe, 
Again  pours  ruin  on  the  vale  below. 
Ten  thousand  swains  the  wasted  scene  deplore, 
That  only  future  ages  can  restore. 

Ye  monarchs,  whom  the  lure  of  honor  draws, 
Who  write  in  blood  the  merits  of  your  cause, 
Who  strike  the  blow,  then  plead  your  own  defence, 
Glory  your  aim,  but  justice  your  pretence; 
Behold  in  Etna's  emblematic  fires, 
The  mischief  your  ambitious  pride  inspires  ! 

Fast  by  the  stream,  that  bounds  your  just  domain, 
And  tells  you  where  ye  have  a  right  to  reign, 
A  nation  dwells  not  envious  of  your  throne,  ^ 
Studious  of  peace,  their  neighbours'  and  their  own. 
Ill-fated  race!  how  deeply  must  they  rue 
Their  only  crime,  vicinity  to  you! 
The  trumpet  sounds,  your  legions  swarm  abroad, 
Through  the  ripe  harvest  lies  their  destm'd  road, 
At  ev'ry  step  beneath  their  feet  they  tread 
The  life  of  multitudes,  a  nation's  bread ! 
Earth  seems  a  garden  in  its  loveliest  dress 
Before  them,  and  behind  a  wilderness. 
Famine,  and  Pestilence,  her  first-born  son, 
Attend  to  finish  what  the  sword  begun  ; 
And  echoing  praises,  such  as  fiends  might  earn 
And  Folly  pays,  resound  at  your  return. 
A  calm  succeeds-but  Plenty,  with  her  train 
Of  heartfelt  joys,  succeeds  not  soon  again, 
And  years  of  pining  indigence  must  show 
What  scourges  are  the  gods  that  rule  below. 
Yet  man,  hboaous  man,  bv  slow  degrees, 

2  F 


320 

(Such  is  his  thirst  of  opulence  and  ease) 
Plies  all  the  sinews  of  industrious  toil, 
Gleans  up  the  icfuse  of  the  gen'ral  spoil, 
Rebuilds  the  tow'r-s,  that  sin  ok  d  upon  the  plain, 
And  the  sun  gilds  the  shiniig  spires  ajrain 

Increasing  commerce  and  reviving  art 
Renew  the  quarrel  on  the  conqu'ror's  part; 
And  the  sad  lesson  must  he  learnt  once  more, 
That  wealth  within  is  ruin  at  the  door. 
What  are  ye,  monarchs,  laurell'd  heroes,  say, 
But  Etnas  of  the  suff  ri'ig  wo  1  I  ye  sway  ? 
Sweet  Nature,  stripp'd  of  her  embroider'd  robe, 
Deplores  the  wasted  regions  of  her  glohe  ; 
And  stands  a  witness  at  Truth's  awtul  bar, 
To  prove  you  there  destroyers  as  ye  are. 

O  place  me  in  some  Heav'n-protected  isle, 
Where  Peace,  and  Equity,  and  Freedom  smile ; 
Where  no  volcano  pours  his  tiery  flood, 
No  crested  warrior  dips  his  plume  in  blood; 
Where  Pow'r  secures  what  Industry  has  won; 
Where  to  succeed  is  not  to  be  undone  ; 
A  land,  that  distant  tyrants  hate  in  vain, 
In  Britain's  isle,  beneath  a  George's  reign  1 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF 
MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 

OUT    OF    NORFOLK  ; 

The  gift  of  my  cousin,  Ann  Bodham. 

O  that  those  lips  had  language !    Life  has  pass'd 
With  me  but  roughly  since  1  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  1  see, 
The  same,  that  oft  in  childhood  solac'd  me  ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away!" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 
O  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  1 


327 

Who  bidd'st  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 

Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

I  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own; 

And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 

Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 

Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 

A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother!    when  I  learn'd  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hover'd  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorr'wing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 
Pet  haps  thou  gav'st  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
All  that  maternal  smile!    it  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  toll'd  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nurs'ry  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 
But  was  it  such  ?  —  It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone, 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  ! 
Thy  maidens,  gnev'd  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wish'd,  I  long  believ'd, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceiv'd. 
By  expectation  ev'ry  day  beguil'd, 
Dupe  of  to-murroiv  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow    came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learn'd  at  last  submission  to  my  lot, 
But,  though  1  less  depl  >r'd  thee.  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwi.'lt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nurs'ry  floor ; 
And  where  the  gard'ner  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach  and  wrapp'd 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  cap, 
'Tis  now  become  a  hist'ry  lictle  known, 
That  once  we  call'd  the  past'ral  house  our  own. 
Short-liv'd  possession  !    but  the  record  fair, 
'i  hat  mem'ry  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effac'd 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  trac'd. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
Tuat  thou  might'st  know  me  safe  and  Ararmly  laid; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 
The  biscuit;  or  coritectu*uai-}  plum; 


828 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow'd 

By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glow'd: 

All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne'er  roughen'd  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks, 

That  humor  interpos'd  too  often  makes  ; 

All  this  still  legible  in  mem'ry's  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 

Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may; 

Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorn'd  in  Heav'n,  though  little  notic'd  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  revers'd,  restore  the  hours> 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissu'd  flow'rs, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  ptick'd  them  into  paper  with  a  pin 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head,  and  smile 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here? 
1  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desir'd,  perhaps  I  might. — 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  lov'd,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weather'd  and  the  ocean  cross'd), 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven'd  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !    hast  reach'd  the  short, 
"  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar,"* 
And  thy  lov'd  consort  on  the  dang'rous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchor'd  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  th?t  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distress'd — 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-toss'd, 
Sails  ripp'd,  seams  op'ning  wide,  and  compass  lost, 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosp'rous  course. 
Yet  O  the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he  1 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 

*  Garth, 


329 

From  loins  enthron'd,  and  rulers  of  the  earth; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  ilse — 
The  sou  ot  parents  pa^s'd  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  tarewell — Time  unrevok'd  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wish'd  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem'd  t  have  liv'd  my  childhood  o'er  again ; 
To  h.ive  renew'd  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 
And,  wh.le  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 
And  1  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft— 
Thyself  remov'd,  thy  pow'r  to  soothe  me  left* 


330 


FRIENDSHIP. 


WHAT  virtue,  or  what  mental  grace, 
But  men  unqualified  and  base 
PrWill  boast  it  tbeir  possession? 

ofusion  apes  the  noble  part 
Of  liberality  of  heart, 

And  dulness  of  discretion. 

If  every  polish'd  gem  we  find, 
Illuminating  heart  or  mind, 

Provoke  to  imitation  ; 
No  wonder  friendship  does  the  same, 
That  jewel  of  the  purest  flame, 

Or  rather  constellation. 

No  knave  but  boldly  will  pretend 
The  requisites  that  form  a  friend, 

A  real  and  a  sound  one  ; 
Nor  any  fool,  he  would  deceive, 
But  prove  as  ready  to  believe, 

And  dream  that  he  had  found  one, 

Candid,  and  generous,  and  just, 
Boys  care  but  little  whom  they  trust, 

An  error  soon  corrected — 
For  who  but  learns  in  riper  years, 
That  man,  when  smoothest  he  appear* 

Is  most  to  be  suspected  1 

But  here  again  a  danger  lies, 
Lest,  having  misapplied  our  eyes, 

And  taken  trash  for  treasure, 
We  should  unwarily  conclude 
Friendship  a  false  ideal  good, 

A  mere  Utopian  pleasure. 


FRIENDSHIP  S3I 

An  acquisition  rather  rare 
Is  yet  no  subject  of  despair  ; 

Nor  is  it  wise  complaining, 
If  either  on  forbidden  ground, 
Or  where  it  was  not  to  be  found,, 

We  sought  without  attaining. 

No  friendship  will  abide  the  test, 
That  stands  on  sordid  interest, 

Or  mean  self-love  erected  ; 
Nor  such  as  may  a  while  subsist, 
Between  the  sot  and  sensualist, 

For  vicious  ends  connected. 

Who  seek  a  friend  should  come  d'spos'd^ 
T'  exhibit  in  full  bloom  disclos'd 

The  graces  and  the  beauties, 
That  form  the  character  he  seeks, 
For  'tis  a  union,  that  bespeaks 

Reciprocated  duties. 

Mutual  attention  is  implied, 
And  equal  truth  on  eitner  side, 

And  constantly  supported ; 
'Tis  senseless  arrogance  t'  accuse 
Another  of  sinister  views, 

Our  own  as  much  distorted. 

But  will  sincerity  suffice  ? 
It  is  indeed  above  all  price, 

And  must  be  made  the  basis ; 
But  ev'ry  virtue  of  the  soul 
Must  constitute  the  charming  whole^ 

All  shining  in  their  places. 

A  fretful  temper  will  divide 

The  closest  knot  tbat  may  be  tied, 

By  ceaseless  sharp  corrosion ; 
A  temper  passionate  and  fierce 
May  suddenly  your  joys  disperse 

At  one  immense  explosion. 

In  vain  the  talkative  unite 

In  hopes  of  permanent  delight — 

The  secret  just  committed, 
Forgetting  its  important  weight, 
They  drop  through  mere  desire  to  prate, 

And  by  themselves  outwitted. 


832  FRIENDSHIP 

How  bright  soe'er  the  prospect  seems, 
All  thoughts  of  friendship  are  but  dreamt, 

If  envy  chance  to  creep  in  ; 
An  envious  man,  if  you  succeed, 
May  prove  a  dang'rous  foe  indeed, 

But  not  a  friend  worth  keeping. 

As  envy  pines  at  good  possess'd, 
So  jealousy  looks  forth  distress'd 

On  good,  that  seems  approaching  ; 
And,  if  success  his  steps  attend, 
Discerns  a  rival  in  a  friend, 

And  hates  him  for  enroaching. 

Hence  authors  of  illustrious  name, 
Unless  belied  by  common  fame, 

Are  sadly  prone  to  quarrel, 
To  deem  the  wit  a  friend  displays 
A  tax  upon  their  own  just  praise, 

And  pluck  each  other's  laurel. 

A  man  renown'd  for  repartee 
Will  seldom  scruple  to  make  free 

With  friendship's  finest  feeling, 
Wil.  thrust  a  dagger  at  your  breast, 
And  say  he  wounded  you  in  jest, 

By  way  of  balm  for  healing. 

Whoever  keeps  an  open  ear 
For  tattlers  will  be  sure  to  hear 

The  trumpet  of  contention  ; 
Aspersion  is  the  babbler's  trade, 
To  listen  is  to  lend  him  aid, 

And  rush  into  dissension. 

A  friendship,  that  in  frequent  fits 
Of  controversial  rage  emits 

The  sparks  of  disputation, 
Like  hand  in  hand  insurance  plates, 
Most  unavoidably  creates 

The  thought  of  conflagration. 

Some  fickle  creatures  boast  a  soul 
True  as  a  needle  to  the  pole, 

Their  humor  yet  so  various — 
They  manifest  their  whole  life  through 
The  needle's  deviations  too, 

Their  love  is  so  precarious. 


333 

The  great  and  small  but  rarely  meet 
On  terms  of  amity  complete  ; 

Plebeians  must  surrender 
And  yiehl  so  much  to  noble  folk, 
It  is  combining  fire  with  smoke, 

Obscurity  with  splendor. 

Some  are  so  placid  and  serene 
(As  Irish  bogs  are  always  green) 

They  sleep  secure  from  waking; 
And  are  indeed  a  bog,  that  bears 
Your  unparticipated  cares 

Unmov'd  and  without  quaking. 

Courtier  and  patriot  cannot  mix 
Their  het'rogeneous  politics 

Without  an  effervescence, 
Like  that  of  salts  with  lemon  juice, 
Which  does  not  yet  like  that  produce 

A  friendly  coalescence. 

Religion  should  extinguish  strife, 
And  make  a  calm  of  human  life? 

But  friends  that  chance  to  differ 
On  points,  which  God  has  left  at  large, 
How  freely  will  they  meet  and  charge  I 

No  combatants  are  Differ. 

To  prove  at  last  my  main  intwit 
Needs  no  expense  of  argument, 

No  cutting  and  contriving — 
Seeking  a  real  friend  we  seem 
T'adopt  the  chymist's  golden  dream, 

With  still  less  hope  of  thriving. 

Sometimes  the  fault  is  all  our  own, 
Some  blemish  in  due  time  made  known 

By  trespass  or  omission  ; 
Sometimes  occasion  brings  to  light 
Our  friend's  defect  long  hid  from  sight, 

And  even  from  suspicion. 

Then  judge  yourself,  and  prove  your  man 
As  circumspectly  as  you  can, 

And,  having  made  election, 
Beware  no  negligence  of  yours, 
Such  as  a  friend  but  ill  endure*, 

Enfeeble  his  affection. 


334 

That  secrets  are  a  sacred  trust, 

That  friends  should  be  sincere  and  just, 

That  constancy  befits  them, 
Are  observations  on  the  case, 
That  savor  much  of  common-place, 

And  all  the  world  admits  them. 

But  'tis  not  timber,  lead,  and  stone, 
An  architect  requires  alone, 

To  finish  a  fine  building — 
The  palace  were  but  half  complete, 
If  he  could  possibly  forget 

The  carving  and  the  gilding. 

The  man  that  hails  you  Tom  or  Jack, 
Ai*l  proves  by  thumps  upon  your  back 

How  he  esteems  your  merit, 
Is  such  a  friend,  that  one  had  need 
Be  very  much  his  friend  indeed, 

To  pardon  or  to  bear  it. 

As  similarity  of  mind, 

Or  something  not  to  he  defin'd, 

First  fixes  our  attention  ; 
So  manners  decent  and  polite, 
The  same  we  practis'd  at  first  sight, 

Must  save  it  from  declension. 

Some  act  upon  this  prudent  plan, 
'  S  y  little,  and  hear  all  you  can." 

Safe  policy,  but  hateful — 
So  barren  sands  imbibe  the  show'r, 
But  render  neither  fruit  nor  flow'r, 

Unpleasant  and  ungrateful. 

The  man  I  trust,  if  shy  to  me, 
Shall  find  me  as  reserv'd  as  he  : 

No  subterfuge  or  pleading 
Shall  win  my  confidence  again ; 
I  will  by  no  means  entertain 

A  spy  on  my  proceeding. 

These  samples — for  alas!  at  last 
These  are  but  samples,  and  a  taste 

Of  evils  yet  unmention'd — 
May  prove  the  task  a  task  indeed, 
In  whi  h  'tis  much  if  we  succeed 

However  well-intention'd. 


335 

Pursue  the  search,  and  you  will  find 
G-»od  sense  and  knowledge  of  mankind 

To  be  at  least  expedient, 
And,  after  summing  all  the  rest, 
Religion  ruling  in  the  breast 

A  principal  ingredient. 

The  noblest  Friends  hip  ever  shown 
The  Saviour's  history  makes  known. 

Though  some  have  turn'd  and  turn'd,it; 
And,  whether  being  craz'd  or  blind, 
Or  seeking  with  a  biass'd  mind, 

Have  not,  it  seems,  uiscern'd  it. 

O  Friendship,  if  my  soul  forego 
Thy  dear  delights  while  here  below  ; 

To  mortify  and  grieve  me, 
May  I  myself  at  last  appear 
Unworthy,  base,  and  insincere, 

Or  may  my  friend  deceive  me ! 


ON  A  MISCHIEVOUS  BULL, 

WHICH  THE  OWNER  OP  HIM  SOLD  AT  THE  AUTHOR'S  INSTANCE. 

Go  —  Thou  art  all  unfit  to  share 

The  pleasures  of  this  place 
With  such  as  its  old  tenants  are, 

Creatures  of  gentler  race 

The  squirrel  here  his  hoard  provides, 

Aware  of  wintry  storms, 
And  woodpeckers  explore  the  sides 

Of  rugged  oaks  for  worms. 

The  sheep  here  smooths  the  knotted  thorn 

With  frictions  of  her  fleece  ; 
And  here  I  wander  eve  and  morn, 

Like  her,  a  friend  to  peace. 


!—  I  could  Pity  thee  exil'd 
From  this  secure  retreat  — 
I  would  not  lose  it  to  be  styl'd 
The  happiest  of  the  great. 


336 

But  thou  canst  taste  no  calm  delight ; 

Thy  pleasure  is  to  show 
Thy  magnanimity  in  fight, 

Thy  prowess — therefore  go — 

I  care  not  whether  east  or  north, 
So  I  no  more  may  find  thee  ; 

The  angry  muse  thus  sings  thee  forth, 
And  claps  the  gate  behind  thee. 


ANNUS  MEMORABILIS.  1789. 

WRITTEN  IN  COMMEMORATION  OF  HIS  MAJESTY'S 
HAPPY    RECOVERY. 

I  Ransack'd,  for  a  theme  of  song, 
Much  ancient  chronicle,  and  long  ; 
I  read  of  bright  embattled  fields, 
Of  trophied  helmets,  spears,  and  shields. 
Of  chiefs,  whose  single  arm  could  boast 
Prowess  to  dissipate  a  host ; 
Through  tomes  of  fable  and  of  dream 
I  sought  an  eligible  theme, 
But  none  I  found,  or  found  them  shar'd 
Already  by  some  happier  bard. 

To  modern  times,  with  Truth  to  guide 
My  busy  search,  I  next  applied ; 
Here  cities  won,  and  fleets  dispers'd, 
Urg'd  loud  a  claim  to  be  rehears'd, 
Deeds  of  unperishing  renown, 
Our  fathers'  triumphs  and  our  own. 

Thus,  as  tue  bee,  from  bank  to  bow'r, 
Assiduous  sips  at  ev'ry  fiow'r, 
Bat  rests  on  none,  till  that  be  found, 
Where  most  nectareous  sweets  auound, 
So  I,  from  theme  to  theme  display'd 
In  many  a  page  historic  stray'd, 
Siege  after  siege,  fight  after  fight, 
Contemplating  with  small  delight 
(For  feats  of  sanguinary  hue 
Not  always  glitter  in  my  view;) 
Till,  settling  on  the  current  year, 
I  found  the  far-sought  treasure  near 
A  theme  for  poetry  divine, 


837 

A  theme  t'ennoble  even  mine, 
In  memorable  eighty-nine. 

The  spring  of  eighty-nine  shall  be 
An  era  cherish'd  long  by  me, 
Which  joyful  I  will  oft  record, 
And  thankful  at  my  frugal  hoard  ; 
For  then  the  clouds  of  eighty-eight, 
That  threaten'd  England's  tremhling  state 
With  loss  of  what  she  least  could  spare, 
Her  sovereign's  tutelary  care, 
One  breath  of  Heav'n,  that  cried — Restore! 
Chas'd,  never  to  assemble  more  : 
And  for  the  richest  crown  on  Earth, 
If  valu'd  by  its  wearer's  worth, 
The  symbol  of  a  righteous  reign 
Sat  fast  on  George's  brows  again. 
Then  peace  and  joy  again  possess'd 
Our  Queen's  long-agitated  breast  ; 
Such  joy  and  peace  as  can  be  known 
By  sutTrers  like  herself  alone, 
Who  losing,  or  supposing  lost, 
The  good  on  Earth  they  valu'd  most, 
For  that  dear  sorrow's  sake  forego 
All  hope  of  happiness  below, 
Then  suddenly  regain  the  prize, 
And  flash  thanksgivings  to  the  skies  J 

O  Queen  of  Albion,  queen  of  isles  1 
Since  all  thy  tears  were  chang'd  to  smile* 
The  eyes,  that  never  saw  thee,  shine 
With  joy  not  unallied  to  thine, 
Transports  not  chargeable  with  art 
Illume  the  land's  remotest  part, 
And  strangers  to  the  air  of  courts, 
Both  in  their  toils  and  at  their  sports, 
The  happiness  of  answer'd  pray'rs, 
That  gilds  thy  features,  show  in  theirs 
If  they,  who  on  thy  state  attend, 
Awe-struck,  before  thy  presence  bend, 
'Tis  but  the  natural  effect, 
Of  grandeur  that  ensures  respect ; 
But  she  is  something  more  than  Queen, 
Who  is  belov'd  where  never  seen. 


2  a 


'88 


HYMN, 

FOR   THE    USE   OF    THE    SUNDAY    SCHOOL    AT    OLNBT. 

Hear,  Lord,  the  song  of  praise  and  pray'r, 
In  Heav'n  thy  dwelling-place, 

From  infants  made  the  public  care, 
And  taught  to  seek  thy  face, 

Thanks  for  thy  word,  and  for  thy  day, 

And  grant  us,  we  implore, 
Never  to  waste  in  sinful  play 

Thy  holy  sabbaths  more. 

Thanks  that  we  hear,  —  but  O  impart 

To  each  desires  sincere, 
That  we  may  listen  with  our  heart, 

And  iearn  as  well  as  hear. 

For  if  vain  thoughts  the  minds  engage 

Of  older  far  than  we, 
What  hope,  that,  at  our  heedless  age 

Our  minds  should  e'er  be  free  ? 

Much  hope,  if  thou  our  spirits  take 

Under  thy  gracious  sway, 
Who  canst  the  wisest  wiser  make, 
babes  as  wise  as  they. 


Wisdom  and  bliss  thy  word  bestows, 

A  sun  that  ne'er  declines, 
And  be  thy  mercies  snow'r'd  on  thostt 

Who  plac'd  us  where  it  shines 


839 


STANZAS 

SUBJOINED  TO  THE  YEARLY  BILL  OF  MORTALITY  OP  THE 
f  AKISH  OF  ALL-SAIMTS,    NOKTHAMPTO.N,  ANNO  DOMINI  1787.* 


Pallida  Mors  eeqno  pulsat  pede  pauperum  tabernas, 
Regumque  turres.  HOR. 

Pale  death  with  equal  foot  strikes  wide  the  door 
Of  royal  halls,  and  hovels  of  the  poor. 


While  thirteen  moons  saw  smoothly  run 
The  Nen's  barge-laden  wave, 

All  these,  life's  rambling  journey  done, 
Have  found  their  home,  the  grave. 

Was  man  (frail  always)  made  more  frail 

Than  in  foregoing  years  ? 
Did  Famine  or  did  plague  prevail, 

That  so  much  death  appears  ? 

No ;  these  were  vig'rous  as  their  sires, 
Nor  plague  nor  famine  came  ; 

This  annual  tribute  Death  requires, 
And  never  waves  his  claim. 

Like  crowded  forest-trees  we  stand, 

And  some  are  mark'd  to  fall ; 
The  axe  will  smite  at  God's  command. 
And  soon  shall  smite  us  all. 

*  Composed  for  John  Cox,  parish  clerk  of  Northampton, 


S40 

Green  as  the  bay- tree,  ever  green 

With  its  new  foliage  on, 
The  gay,  the  thoughtless,  have  I  seen 

I  pass'd — and  they  were  gone. 

Read,  ye  that  run,  the  awful  truth, 

With  which  I  charge  my  page; 
A  worm  is  in  the  bud  of  youth, 

And  at  the  root  of  age. 

No  present  health  can  health  ensure 

For  yet  an  hour  to  come  ; 
No  med'cine,  though  it  oft  can  cure 

Can  always  baulk  the  tomb. 

And  O !  that  humble  as  my  lot, 

And  scorn'd  as  is  my  strain, 
These  truths,  though  known,  too  much  forgot, 

I  may  not  teacli  in  vain. 

So  prays  your  clerk  with  all  his  heart, 

And  ere  he  quits  the  pen, 
Begs  you  for  once  to  take  his  part, 

And  answer  a;i — Amen  I 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR    THE    YEAR    1788. 


Quod  adest,  memento 
Componere  (equus*     C&tera  fluminis 
Ritu  feruntur.  HoR. 

Improve  the  present  hour,  for  all  beside 
Is  a  mere  feather  on  a  torrent's  tide. 


Could  I,  from  Heav'n  inspir'd,  as  sure  presage 
To  whom  the  rising  year  shall  prove  his  last, 
As  I  can  number  in  my  punctual  page, 
And  item  down  the  victims  of  the  past . 

How  each  would  trembling  wait  the  mournful  sheet, 
On  which  the  press  might  stamp  him  next  to  die  ; 
And,  reading  here  his  sentence,  how  replete 
With  anxious  meaning,  Heav'nward  turn  his  eye  ! 

Time  then  would  seem  more  precious  than  the  joys, 
In  which  he  sports  away  the  treasure  now ; 
And  pray'r  more  seasonable  than  the  noise 
Of  drunkards,  or  the  music-drawing  bow. 

Then  doubtless  many  a  trifler,  on  the  brink 
Of  this  world's  hazardous  and  headlong  shore, 
Forc'd  to  a  pause,  would  feel  it  good  to  think, 
Told  that  his  setting  sun  must  rise  no  more. 

Ah  self-deceived !  Could  I  prophetic  say 
Who  nex    ^s  fated,  and  who  next  to  fall, 
The  rest  might  then  seem  privileg'd  to  play ; 
But,  naming  none,  the  Voice  now  speaks  to  ALL. 

2  G  2 


342 

Observe  the  dappled  foresters,  how  light 
They  bound  arid  airy  o'er  the  sunny  glade  — 
One  falls — the  rest,  wide-scatter'd  with  affright, 
Vanish  at  once  into  the  darkest  shade. 

Had  we  their  wisdom,  should  we,  often  warn'd, 
Still  need  repeated  warnings,  and  at  last, 
A  thousand  awful  admonitions  scorn'd, 
Die  self-accus'd  of  life  run  all  to  waste  ? 

Sad  waste !  for  which  no  after-thrift  atones. 
The  grave  admits  no  cure  for  guilt  or  sin ; 
Dew-drops  may  deck  the  turf  that  hides  the  bones, 
But  tears  of  godly  grief  ne'er  flow  within. 

Learn  then,  ye  living!  by  the  mouths  be  taught 
Of  all  these  sepulchres,  instructors  true, 
That,  soon  or  late,  death  also  is  your  lot, 
And  the  next  op'ning  grave  may  yawn  for  you. 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR   THE  YEAR    1789. 


—Placidaque  ibi  demum  morte  quievit.     VIRO. 
There  calm  at  length  he  breath'd  his  soul  away. 


"  O  Most  delightful  hour  by  man 
Experienc'd  here  belo«r, 
The  hour  that  terminates 
His  folly,  and  his  woe  1 

"  Worlds  should  not  bribe  me  back  to  tread 

Again  life's  dreary  waste, 

To  see  again  my  day  o'erspread 

With  all  the  gloomy  past. 


343 

•'  My  home  henceforth  is  in  the  skies, 

Earth,  seas,  and  sun  adieu 
All  heav'n    unfolded  to  mine  eyes, 

J  have  no  sight  for  you." 

So  spake  Aspasio,  firm  possess'd 

Of  faith's  supporting  rod, 
Then  breathed  his  soul  into  its  rest, 

The  bosom  of  his  God. 

He  was  a  man  among  the  few 

Sincere  on  virtue's  side  ; 
And  all  his  strength  from  scripture  drew, 

To  hourly  use  applied. 

That  rule  he  priz'd,  by  that  he  fear'd, 

He  hated,  hop'd,  and  lov'd  ; 
Nor  ever  frown'd,  or  sad  appear'd, 

But  when  his  heart  had  ror'd. 

For  he  was  frail,  as  thou  or  I, 

And  evil  felt  within  : 
But,  when  he  felt  it,  heav'd  a  sigh, 

And  loath' d  the  thought  of  sin. 

Such  liv'd  Aspasio  ;  and  at  last 
Call'd  up  from  Earth  to  Heav'n, 

The  gulf  of  death  triumphant  pass'd, 
By  gales  of  blessing  driv'n. 

Hit  joys  be  mine,  each  reader  cries, 

When  my  last  hour  arrives  ; 
They  shall  be  yours,  my  verse  replies, 

Such  only  be  your  lives. 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR    THE    YEAR    1790. 


ffe  commanentem  recta  sperne. 
Despise  not  my  good  counsel. 


BUCHANAM. 


He  who  sits  from  day  to  day, 
Where  the  prison'd  lark  is  hung, 

Heedless  of  his  loudest  lay, 

Hardly  knows  that  he  has  sung. 

Where  the  watchman  in  his  round 
Nightly  lifts  his  voice  on  high 

None,  accustom'd  to  the  sound, 
Wakes  the  sooner  for  his  cry. 

So  your  verse-man  I,  and  clerk, 
Yearly  in  my  song  proclaim 

Death  at  hanu —  yourselves  his  mark" 
And  the  foe's  unerring  aim. 

Duly  at  my  time  I  come, 

Publishing  to  all  aloud — 
Soon  the  grave  must  be  your  home, 

And  your  only  suit  a  shroud 

But  the  monitory  strain, 

Oft  repeated  in  your  ears, 
Seems  to  sound  too  much  in  vain, 

Wins  no  notice,  wakes  no  fears. 

Can  a  truth,  hy  all  ccnfess'd 

Of  such  magnitude  and  weight, 

Grow,  by  being  oft  impress'd, 
Trivial  as  a  parrot's  prate  ? 


315 

Pleasure's  call  attention  wins, 

Hear  it  often  as  we  may; 
New  as  ever  seen  our  sins, 

Though  committed  ev'ry  day. 

Death  and  Judgment,  Heav'n  and  Hell- 

These  alone,  so  often  heard, 
No  more  move  us  than  the  b^ll, 

When  some  stranger  is  interr'd. 

O  then,  ere  the  turf  or  tomb 

Cover  us  from  ev'ry  eye, 
Spirit  of  instruction  come, 

Make  us  learn,  that  we  must  die* 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION. 

FOR    THE    YEAR    1792. 


Felix,  qui  potuit  rerum  cognoscere  causatt 
Atque  metus  omnes  et  inexorabile  fatum 
Subjecit  pedibus,  strepitumque  Acherontit  nr 

VlRO. 

Happy  the  mortal,  who  has  trac'd  effects 

To  their  first  cause,  cast  fear  beneath  his  feet, 

And  Death  and  roaring  Hell's  voracious  fires  1 


Thankless  for  favors  from  on  high, 
Man  thinks  he  fades  too  soon ; 

Though  'tis  his  privilege  to  die, 
Would  he  improve  the  boon. 

But  he,  not  wise  enough  to  scan 
His  blest  concerns  aright, 

Would  gladly  stretch  life's  little  spam 
To  ages,  if  he  might. 


346 


To  ages  in  a  worid  of  pain, 

To  ages,  where  he  goes 
Gall'd  by  affliction's  heavy  chain, 

And  hopeless  of  repose. 

Strange  fondness  of  the  human  heart, 

Enamour'd  of  its  harm  ! 
Strange  world,  that  costs  it  so  much  smart, 

And  still  has  pow'r  to  charm. 

Whence  has  the  world  her  magic  pow'r  ? 

Why  deem  we  death  a  foe  ? 
Recoil  from  weary  life's  best  hour, 

And  covet  longer  woe  2 

The  cause  is  Conscience— Conscience  oft 

Her  tale  of  guilt  renews  : 
Her  voice  is  terrible  though  soft, 

And  dread  of  death  ensues. 

Then  anxious  to  be  longer  spar'd 
Man  mourns  his  fleeting  breath  : 

All  evils  then  seem  light,  compar'd 
With  the  approach  of  Death. 

'Tis  judgment  shakes  him  ;  there's  the  fear 
Tbat  prompts  the  wish  to  stay; 

He  has  incurr'd  a  long  arrear, 
And  must  despair  to  pay. 

pay  /—follow  Christ,  and  all  is  paid ; 

His  death  your  peace  ensures  , 
Think  on  the  grave  where  he  was  laid, 

And  calm  descend  to  yourt. 


347 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION, 

FOR    THE   YEAR    1793. 


De  sacrts  aufem  h<rc  sit  una  sententia,  ut   con- 
terventur. — Cic.  DE  LEG. 

But  let  us  all  concur  in  this  one  sentiment,  tlat 
things  sacred  be  inviolate. 


He  lives,  who  lives  to  God  alone, 

And  all  are  dead  beside; 
lor  other  source  than  God  is  none 

Whence  life  can  be  supplied. 

To  live  to  God  is  to  requite 

His  love  as  best  we  may ; 
To  make  his  precepts  our  delight, 

His  promises  our  stay. 

But  life,  within  a  narrow  ring, 

Of  giddy  joys  compris'd, 
Is  f&isely  nam'd,  and  no  such  thing, 

But  rather  death  disguis'd. 

Can  life  in  them  deserve  the  name, 

Who  only  live  to  prove 
For  what  poor  toys  they  can  disclaim 

An  endless  life  above  ? 

Who,  much  diseas'd,  yet  nothing  feel ; 

Much  menac'd,  nothing  dread  ; 
Have  wounds,  which  only  God  can  heal, 

Yet  never  ask  his  aid  ? 


348 

Who  deem  his  house  a  useless  place, 
Faith,  want  of  common  sense  ; 

And  ardor  in  the  Christian  race, 
A  hypocrite's  pretence  ? 

Who  trample  order  ;  and  the  day 
Which  God  asserts  his  own, 

Dishonor  with  unhallow'd  play, 
And  worship  chance  alone  ? 

If  scorn  of  God's  commands,  impress'd 

On  word  and  deed,  imply 
The  better  part  of  man  unbless'd 

With  life  that  cannot  die : 

Such  want  it,  and  that  want,  uncur'd 
Till  man  resigns  his  breath, 

Speaks  him  a  criminal,  assur'd 
Of  everlasting  death. 

Saa  period  to  a  pleasant  course  1 

Yet  so  will  God  repay 
Sabbaths  profan'd  without  remorse, 

And  mercy  cast  away. 


INSCRIPTION 

FOR    THE    TOMB    OF   MR.    HAMILTON 

Pause  here,  and  think:  a  monitory  rhyme 
Demands  one  moment  of  thy  fleeting  time. 

Consult  life's  silent  clock,  thy  bounding  vien  ; 
Seems  it  to  say — '  Health  here  has  long  to  reign 
Hast  thou  the  vigor  of  thy  youth  ?   an  eye 
That  beams  delight?  a  heart  untaught  to  sigh  ? 
Yet  fear.    Youth,  ofttimes  healthful  and  at  ease, 
Anticipates  a  day  it  never  sees; 
And  many  a  tomb,  like  Hamilton's,  aloud 
Exclaims,  '  Prepare  thee  for  an  early  shroud.' 


349 


THE  ENCHANTMENT  DISSOLVED. 


Blinded  in  youth  by  Satan's  arts, 
The  world  to  our  unpractis'd  hearts 

A  flattening  prospect  shows  ; 
Our  Fancy  forms  a  thousand  schemei  ; 
Of  gay  delights  and  golden  dreams, 

And  und.-turb  d  repose. 

So  in  the  desert's  dreary  waste 

By  magic  power  produced  in  haste, 

(As  ancient  fables  say), 
Castles,  and  groves,  and  music  sweet, 
The  senses  of  the  traveller  meet, 

And  stop  him  in  his  way. 

But  while  he  listens  with  surprise, 
The  charm  dissolves,  the  vision  dies, 

'Twas  but  enchanted  ground; 
Thus  if  the  Lord  our  spirit  touch, 
The  world,  which  promised  us  so  much, 

A  wilderness  is  found. 

At  first  we  start  and  feel  distress'd 
Convinced  we  never  can  have  rest 

In  such  a  wretched  place  ; 
But  He  whose  mercy  breaks  the  charm, 
Reveals  his  own  Almighty  arm, 

And  bids  us  seek  his  face. 

Then  we  begin  to  live  indeed 

When  from  our  sin  and  bondage  freed 

By  his  beloved  Friend  ; 
We  follow  him  from  day  to  day, 
Assured  of  grace  through  all  the  way, 

And  glory  at  the  end. 


2  H 


550 


LIGHT  SHINING  OUT  OF  DARKNESS. 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way, 

His  wonders  to  perform  ; 
He  plants  his  footsteps  in  the  sea, 
And  rides  upon  the  storm. 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 

Of  never-failing  skill, 
He  treasures  up  his  bright  designs, 

And  works  his  sovereign  will. 

Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take, 

The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 
Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 

In  blessings  on  your  head. 

Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 

But  trust  him  for  his  grace  ; 
Behind  a  frowning  Providence 

He  hides  a  smiling  facs- 


L» 


His  purposes  will  ripen  fast, 
Unfolding  every  hour  ; 

The  bud  may  have  a  bitter  taste. 
But  sweet  will  be  the  flower 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err* 
'  And  scan  his  work  in  vain ; 
God  is  his  own  interpreter, 
And  he  will  make  it  plain. 


•  John  xiii.  7. 


351 


- 


TEMPTATION. 


The  billows  swell,  the  winds  are  high, 

Clouds  overcast  my  wintry  sky  ; 

Out  of  the  depths  to  thee  I  call, 

My  fears  are  great,  my  strength  is  small. 

O  Lord,  the  pilot's  part  perform, 
And  guide  and  guard  me  through  the  storm, 
Defend  me  fiom  each  threat* ning  ill, 
Control  the  waves,  say,  '  Peace,  be  still.' 

Amidst  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 
My  soul  still  hangs  her  hope  on  thee; 
Thy  constant  love,  thy  faithful  care, 
Is  all  that  saves  me  from  despair. 

Dangers  of  every  shape  and  name 
Attend  the  followers  of  the  Lamb, 
Who  leave  the  world's  deceitful  shore, 
And  leave  it  to  return  no  more. 

Though  tempest-toss'd  and  half  a  wreck, 
My  Saviour  through  the  floods  1  seek; 
Let  neither  winds  nor  stormy  main 
Force  back  my  shatter'd  bark  again. 


SUBMISSION. 

O  Lord,  my  best  desire  fulfil, 

And  help  me  to  resign 
Life,  health,  and  comfort,  to  thy  will 

And  make  thy  pleasure  mine. 


352 

Why  should  I  ishrink  at  thy  command, 
Whose  love  forbids  my  fears  ? 

Or  tremble  at  the  gracious  hand 
That  wipes  away  my  tears? 

No,  let  me  rather  freely  yield 
What  most  I  prize  to  Thee  ; 

Who  never  hast  a  good  withheld, 
Or  wilt  withhold  from  me. 

Thy  favor,  all  my  journey  through, 

Thou  art  engaged  to  grant  ; 
What  else  I  want,  or  think  I  do, 

'Tis  better  still  to  want. 

Wisdom  and  mercy  guide  my  way, 

Shall  I  resist  them  both  ? 
A  poor  blind  creature  of  a  day, 

And  crush'd  before  the  moth  ! 

But  ah !  my  inward  spirit  cries, 

Still  bind  me  to  thy  sway  ; 
Else  the  next  cloud  that  veils  my  skies, 

Drives  all  these  thoughts  away. 


TO  WARREN  HASTINGS,  ESQ. 

BY    AN    OLD    SCHOOLFELLOW    OF    HIS    AT    WESTMINQTEX. 

May,  1792. 

Hastings !   I  knew  thee  voung,  and  of  a  mind 
While  young,  humane,  conversable,  and  kind: 
Nor  can  I  well  believe  thee,  gentle  then, 
Now  grown  a  villian,  and  the  worst  of  men  ; 
But  rather  some  suspect,  who  have  oppress'd 
And  worried  thee,  as  not  themselves  the  best. 


363 


^ 


TO  MARY.  1793, 


The  twentieth  year  is  well  nigh  past, 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast, 
Ah  would  that  this  might  be  the  last ! 

My  Mary  ! 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 

I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow 

'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low. 

My  Mary  I 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more ; 

My  Mary! 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 

My  Mary  I 

But  well  thou  play'dst  the  housewife's  part 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 

My  Mary  1 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  utter'd  in  a  dream ; 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme 

My  Mary  I 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auhurn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 

My  Mary! 

For  could  1  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see  ? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Mary  I 
2  H  2 


354 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline, 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign; 
Ye — gently  press'd,  press  gently  mine, 

My  Mary  I 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov'st, 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov'st 
Upheld  by  two,  yet  still  thou  lov'st, 

My  Mary ! 

And  still  to  love,  though  press'd  with  ill, 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 

My  Mary ! 

But  ah  !  by  constant  heed  I  know, 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show, 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 

My  Maryl 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 

My  Mary  1 


ON  THE  ICE  ISLANDS, 

SEEN    FLOATING    IN    THE    GERMAN    OCEAN. 

What  portents,  from  what  distant  region,  ride, 
Unseen  till  now  in  ours,  th'astonish'd  tide  ? 
In  ages  past,  old  Proteus,  with  his  droves 
Of  sea-calves,  sought  the  mountains  and  the  groves, 
But  now,  descending  whence  of  late  they  stood, 
Themselves  the  mountains  seem  to  rove  the  flood. 
Dire  times  were  they,  full-charged  with  human  woes ; 
And  these,  scarce  less  calamitous  than  those. 
What  view  we  now?   More  wondrous  still !    Behold! 
Like  burnish'd  brass  they  shine,  or  beaten  gold  ; 
And  all  around  the  pearl's  pure  splend  r  show, 
And  all  around  the  ruby's  fiery  glow. 
Come  they  from  India,  where  the  burning  Earth, 
All  bounteous,  gives  her  richest  treasures  birth 
And  where  the  costly  gems,  that  beam  around 
The  brows  of  mightiest  potentates,  are'found? 


355 

No.     Never  such  a  countless  dazzling  store 

Had  left,  unseen,  the  Ganges'  peopled  shore. 

Rapacious  hands,  and  ever-watchful  eyes, 

Should  sooner  far  have  mark'd  and  seized  the  prize. 

\\hence  sprang  they  then?    Ejected  have  they  come 

From  Ves'vius',  or  from  Etna's  burning  womb  ? 

Tims  shine  they  self-illumined,  or  but  display 

The  borrow'd  splendors  of  a  cloudless  day  ?        [breathe 

With  borrow'd  beams  they  shine.     The  gales,  that 

Now  landward,  and  the  current's  force  beneath, 

Have  borne  them  nearer  :    and  the  nearer  sight, 

Advantaged  more,  contemplates  them  aright. 

Their  lofty  summits  crested  high,  they  show, 

"With  mingled  sleet,  and  long-incumbent  snow. 

The  rest  is  ice.     Far  hence,  where,  most  severe, 

Bleak  winter  well-nigh  saddens  all  the  year, 

Their  infant  growth  began.     He  bade  arise 

Their  uncouth  forms,  portentous  in  our  eyes. 

Oft  as  dissolved  by  transient  suns,  the  snow 

Left  the  tall  cliff,  to  join  the  flood  below ; 

He  caught,  and  curdled  with  a  freezing  blast. 

The  current,  ere  it  reach'd  the  boundless  waste. 

By  slow  degrees  uprose  the  wondrous  pile, 

And  long  successive  ages  roll'd  the  while  ; 

Till,  ceaseless  in  its  growth,  it  claim'd  to  stand, 

Tall  as  its  rival  mountains  on  the  land. 

Thus  stood,  and,  unremovable  by  skill, 

Or  force  of  man,  had  stood  the  structure  still  ; 

But  that,  though  firmly  fix'd,  supplanted  yet 

By  pressure  of  its  own  enormous  weight, 

It  left  the  shelving  beach — and,  with  a  sound, 

That  shook  the  bellowing  waves  and  rocks  around, 

Self- launch 'd,  and  swiftly,  to  the  briny  wave, 

As  if  instinct,  with  strong  desire  to  lave, 

Down  went  the  pond'rous  mass.     So  bards  of  old, 

How  Delos  swam  th'^Egean  deep  have  told. 

But  not  of  ice  was  Del*,  s.     Delos  bore 

Herb,  fruit,  and  flower.     She,  crown'd  with  laurel,  wore. 

Even  under  wintry  s!  ies,  a  summer  smile ; 

And  Delos  was  Apollo's  fav'rite  isle. 

But,  horrid  wand'rers  of  the  deep,  to  you 

He  deems  Cimmerian  darkness  only  due. 

Your  hated  birth  he  deign'd  not  to  survey, 

But,  scornful,  turn'd  his  glorious  eyes  away. 

Hence  !    Seek  your  home,  nor  longer  rashly  dare 

The  darts  of  Phoebus,  and  a  softer  air ; 

Lest  ye  regret,  too  late,  yur  native  coast, 

In  no  congenial  gulph  for  jver  lostl 


356 


THE  CAST-AWAY. 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky; 

Th'Atlantic  b'llows  roar'd, 
When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 

Wash'd  headlong  from  on  board, 
Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 
His  floating  home  for  ever  left. 

No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast, 
Than  he,  with  whom  be  went, 

Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast, 
With  warmer  wishes  sent. 

He  lov'd  them  both,  but  both  in  vain, 

Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 

Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brine, 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay ; 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away  ; 
But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife 
Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

He  shouted ;    nor  his  friends  had  fail'd 
To  check  the  vessel's  course, 

But  so  the  furious  blast  prevail'd, 
That,  pitiless  perforce, 

They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind, 

And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succour  yet  they  could  afford  ; 

And,  such  as  storms  allow, 
The  cask,  the  coop,  tne  floated  cord, 

Delay'd  not  to  bestow, 
But  he  (they  knew)  nor  ship  nor  shore, 
Whate'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more. 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seem'd,  could  he 
Their  haste  himself  condemn, 

Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 
Alone  could  rescue  them; 

Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 

Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh* 


He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean,  self-upheld  : 
And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power 

His  destiny  repell'd  : 
And  ever,  as  the  minutes  flew, 
Entreated  help,  or  cried—"  Adieu  I" 

At  length,  his  transient  respite  past, 

His  comrades,  who  before 
Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast, 

CouUi  catch  the  sound  no  more. 
For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 
The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 

No  poet  wept  him  ;   but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere, 
That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age, 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear. 
And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed, 
Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 

I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 

Descanting  on  his  fate, 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  ensuring  date. 
But  misery  still  dt  lights  to  trace 
Its  semblance  in  auull^r's  case. 

No  voice  divine  the  storm  allay'd, 

No  light  propitious  shone  ; 
When,  snatch'd  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perish'd,  each  alone  : 
But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea. 
Ami  whelm' d  in  deeper  gults  than  he. 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE, 

WRITTEN    WHEN    THE    NEWS   ARRIVED,   1782. 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more  ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 

Fast  by  their  native  shore  ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave,  ^ 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land  breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought; 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle  ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock  : 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak  > 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath, 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down, 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up 

Once  dreaded  by  our   foes  I 
And  mingle  with  our  cup, 

The  tear  that  England  owes 


359 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again, 
Full -charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 

His  victories  are  o'er; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred, 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


SONNET  TO  MRS.  UNWIN.     1793. 

Mary !    I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings  ; 
Such  aid  from  heaven  as  some  have  feign'd  they  drew  I 
An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new, 
And  undebased  !>y  praise  of  meaner  things, 
That,  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  ray  wings 
I  may  record  thy  worth,  with  honor  due, 
In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true, — 
Verse  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings. 
But  thcu  hast  little  need;   there  is  a  book 
By  seraphs  writ,  with  beams  of  heavenly  light, 
On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look; 
A  chronicle  of  actions,  just  and  bright ; 
There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine, 
And  since  thou  own'st  that  praise,  i  spare  thee  mine. 


GRATITUDE. 

ADDRESSED   TO   LADY   HESKETH.      1786 

This  cap  that  so  stately  appears, 
With  ribbon-bound  tassel  on  high, 
\Vii':ch  seems  by  the  crest  that  it  rears, 
Ambitious  of  brushing  the  sky : 
This  cap  to  my  cousin  I  owe; 
She  gave  it,  and  gave  me  beside, 
Wreathed  into  an  elegant  bow, 
The  ribbon  with  which  it  is  tied. 


360 

This  wheel-footed  studying  chair, 
Contrived  both  for  toil  and  repose, 
Wide  elbow'd  and  wadded  with  hair, 
In  which  I  both  scribble  and  dose, 
Bright  studded,  to  dazzle  the  eyes, 
And  rival  in  lustre  of  that 
In  which,  or  astronomy  lies, 
Fair  Cassiopeia  sat. 

These  carpets  so  sofl  to  the  foot, 

Caledonia's  traffic  and  pride ! 

Oh  spare  them,  ye  knights  of  the  hoot, 

Escaped  from  a  cross-country  ride  I 

This  table  and  mirror  within, 

Secure  from  collision  and  du>t, 

At  which  I  oft  shave  cheek  and  chin, 

And  periwig  nicely  adjust. 

This  moveahle  structure  of  shelves, 
For  its  beauty  admired  and  its  use, 
And  charged  with  octavos  and  twelves, 
The  gayest  I  had  to  produce ; 
Where,  flaming  in  scarlet  and  gold, 
My  poems  enchanted  I  view, 
And  hope  in  due  time  to  behold 
My  Iliad  and  Odyssey  too. 

This  china  that  decks  the  alcove, 
Which  here  people  call  a  buffet, 
But  what  the  gods  call  it  above, 
Has  ne'er  been  revealed  to  us  yet. 
These  curtains  that  keep  the  room  warm 
Or  cool,  as  the  season  demands  ; 
Those  stoves,  that  for  pattern  and  form, 
Seem  the  labor  of  Mulciber's  hands. 

AH  these  are  not  half  what  I  owe 
To  One,  from  our  earliest  youth 
To  me  ever  ready  to  show 
Benignity,  friendship,  and  truth ; 
For  Time,  the  destroyer  declared 
And  foe  of  our  perishing  kind, 
If  even  her  face  he  has  spared 
Much  less  could  he  alter  her  mind. 

Thus  compass'd  about  with  the  goods 
And  chattels  of  leisure  and  ease 


I  indulge  my  poetical  moods 
In  many  such  fancies  as  these: 
And  fancies  I  fear  they  will  seem— 
Poets'  goods  are  not  often  so  fine; 
1  he  poets  will  swear  that  I  dream, 
\Vhen  I  sing  of  the  splendor  of  mine 


THE  RETIRED  CAT.     1791. 

A  Poet's  cit,  sedate  and  grave 
As  poet  well  could  wish  to  have, 
\Vas  much  adi  cted  to  inquire 
For  nooks  to,  which  she  might  retire, 
And  where   secure  as  mouse  in  chink. 
She  might  repose  or  sit  and  think. 
I  know  not  where  she  caught  the  trick, 

Nature  perhaps  herself  had  cast  her 
In  such  a  mould  philosophiqite, 

Or  else  she  learn'd  it  of  her  master. 
Sometimes  ascending,  debonnair, 
An  apple  tree,  or  lofty  pear, 
Lodged  with  convenience  in  the    fork, 
She  watch'd  the  gard'ner  at  his  work; 
Sometimes  her  ease  and  solace  sought 
In  an  old  empty  watering  pot. 
There,  wanting  nothing  save  a  fan, 
To  seem  some  nymph  in  her  sedan, 
Apparell'd  in  exactest  sort, 
And  ready  to  be  borne  to  court. 
But  love  of  change,  it  seems,  has  place 
Not  only  in  our  wiser  race ; 
Cats  also  feel,  as  well  as  we, 
That  passion's  force,  and  so  did  she. 
Her  climbing,  she  began  to  find, 
Exposed  her  too  mucli  to  the  wind, 
And  the  old  utensil  of  tin, 
Was  cold  and  comfortless  within  ; 
She  therefore  wish'd  instead  of  those 
Some  place  of  more  serene  repose, 
Where  neither  cold  might  come,  nor  air, 
Too  rudely  wanton  with  her  hair, 
And  sought  it  in  the  likeliest  mode, 
Within  her  master's  snug  abode. 
2  I 


362 

A  drawer  it  chanced  at  bottom  lined 

"With  linen  of  the  softest  kind, 

With  such,  as  merchants  introduce 

From  India,  for  the  ladies'  use. 

A  drawer  impending  o'er  the  rest, 

Half  open  in  the  topmost  chest, 

Of  depth  enough  and  none  to  spare, 

Invited  hei  to  slumber  there: 

Puss,  with  delight  beyond  expression, 

Survey'd  the  scene,  and  took  possesion. 

Recumbent  at  her  ease,  ere  long, 

And  lull'd  by  her  own  humdrum  song, 

She  left  the  cares  of  life  behind, 

And  slept  as  she  would  sleep  her  last, 

When  in  came,  housewifely  inclined, 
The  chamber  maid,  and  shut  it  fast ; 

By  no  malignity  impelPd, 

But  all  unconcious  whom  it  held, 

Awaken'd  by  the  shock  (cried  puss), 

'  Was  ever  cat  attended  thus  ? 

The  open  drawer  was  left,  I  see, 

Merely  to  prove  a  nest  for  me. 

For  soon  as  I  was  well  composed, 

Then  came  the  maid,  and  it  was  closed. 

How  smooth  these  kerchiefs  and  how  sweet, 

Oh  what  a  delicate  retreat  ! 
I  will  resign  myself  to  rest 

Till  sol,  declining  in  the  west, 

Shall  call  to  supper,  when,  no  aoubt, 

Susan  will  come  and  let  me  out.' 

The  evening  came,  the  sun  descended, 

And  pus^  remain'd  still  unattended. 

The  night  roll'd  tardily  away, 

With  her  indeed  'twas  never  day, 

The  sprightly  morn  her  course  renew'd, 

The  evening  grey  again  ensued, 

And  puss  came  into  mind  no  more 

Than  it'  entomb'd  the  day  before. 

With  hunger  pinch'd  and  pinch'd  for  room, 

She  now  presaged  approaching  doom, 

Nor  slept  a  single  wink  or  purr'd, 

Conscious  of  jeopardy  incurr'd. 

That  night  by  chance,  the  poet  watching, 

Heard  an  inexplicable  scratching  ; 

His  noble  heart  went  pit-a-pat, 

And  to  himself  he  said—"  what's  that  ?" 

He  drew  the  curtain  at  his  side, 

And  forth  he  peep'd,  but  nothing  spied, 

Yef,  by  his  ear  directed,  ' 


868 

Something  imprisou'd  in  the  chest, 

Ami,  doubtful  \"hat,  with  prudent  care 

Resolv'd  it  should  continue  there. 

At  length  a  voice  which  he  well  knew, 

A  long  and  melancholy  mew, 

Saluting  his  poetic  ears, 

Consoled  him  and  dispell'd  his  fears; 

He  ieft  his  bed,  he  trod  the  floor, 

He'gan  in  haste  the  drawers  explore, 

The  lowest  first,  and  without  stop, 

The  rest  in  order  to  the  top. 

For 'tis  a  truth  well  known  to  most, 

Ttiat  whatsoever  thing  is  lost, 

We  seek  it  ere  it  come  to  light, 

In  every  cranny  but  the  right. 

Forth  skipp'd  the  cat,  not  now  replete 

As  erst  with  airy  self-conceit ; 

Nor  in  her  own  fond  apprehension 

A  theme  for  all  the  world's  attention; 

But  modest,  sober,  cured  of  all 

Her  notions  hyperbolical, 

And  wishing  for  a  place  of  rest 

Any  thing  rather  than  a  chest, 

Then  stepp'd  the  poet  into  bed 

With  this  reflection  in  his  head. 

MORAL. 

Beware  of  too  sublime  a  sense 
O    your  own  worth  and  consequence  ; 
The  mail  who  dreams  himself  so  greats 
Ami  his  importance  of  such  weight, 
That  all  around,  in  all  that's  done, 
Must  move  and  act  for  him  alone, 
\Vill  learn  in  school  of  tribulation, 
The  folly  of  his  expectation. 


364 


ON  THE  SHORTNESS  OF  HUMAN  LIFE. 

Suns  that  set,  and  moons  that  wane, 
Rise,  and  are  restored  again  ; 
Stars  that  orient  day  subdues, 
Night  at  her  return  renews. 
Herbs  and  flowers,  the  beauteous  birth 
Of  the  genial  womb  of  earth, 
Suffer  but  a  transient  death, 
From  the  winter's  cruel  breath, 
Zephyr  speaks  ;  seiener  skies 
Warm  the  glebe,  and  they  arise. 
We,  alas !  earth's  haughty  kings, 
We,  that  promise  mighty  things, 
Losing  soon  life's  happy  prime, 
Droop,  and  fade  in  little  time. 
Spring  returns,  but  not  our  bloom, 
Still  'tis  winter  in  the  tomb. 


«>N    THJ!   LATE    INDECENT    LIBERTIES    TAKEN    WITH    TBB 
REMAINS    OF   MILTON.    1790. 

"  Me  too,  perchance,  in  future  days, 

The  sculptured  stone  shall  show, 
With  Paphian  myrtle  or  with  bays 

Parnassian  on  my  brow. 

"  But  I,  or  ere  that  season  come, 

Escaped  from  every  care, 
Shall  reach  my  refuge  in  the  torrb, 

And  sleep  securely  there." 

So  sang,  in  Roman  tone  and  style, 

The  youthful  bard,  ere  long 
Ordain'd  to  grace  his  native  isle 

With  her  sublimest  song. 

Who  then,  but  must  conceive  disdain, 

Hearing  the  deed  unblest, 
Of  wretches  who  have  dared  profane 

His  dread  sepulchral  rest  ? 


365 

111  fare  the  hands  that  heaved  the  stondd 

Where  Milton's  ashes  lay, 
That  trembled  not  to  grasp  his  bones 

And  steal  his  dust  away  1 

O  ill-requited  bard  !  neglect 

Thy  living  worth  repaid, 
And  blind  idolatrous  respect 

Ac  much  affronts  thee  dead. 


SONNET  TO  DIODATI,  FROM  THE  ITALIAN. 

p 

Charles — and  I  say  it  wond'ring — thou  must  know 
That  I,  who  once  assumed  a  scornful  air, 
And  scoff'd  at  Love,  am  fallen  in  his  snare. 
(Full  many  an  upright  man  has  fallen  so) 
Yet  think  me  not  thus  dazzled  by  the  flow 
Of  golden  locks,  or  damask  cheek  ;  more  rare 
The  heart-felt  beauties  of  my  foreign  fair; 
A  mien  majestic,  with  dark  brows,  that  show 
The  tranquil  lustre  of  a  lofty  mind; 
Words  exquisite,  of  idioms  more  than  one, 
And  song,  who  e  fascinating  power  might  bind, 
And  from  her  sphere  draw  down  the  lab'ring  moon  ; 
With  such  fire-darting  eyes,  that  should  I  fill 
My  ears  with  wax,  she  would  enchant  me  still. 


SONNET  TO  A  LADY,  FROM  THE  ITALIAN. 

Enamour'd,  artless,  young,  on  foreign  ground, 
Uncertain  whither  from  myself  to  fly, 
To  thee,  dear  lady,  with  an  humble  sigh, 
Let  me  devote  my  heart,  which  I  have  found, 
By  certain  proofs,  not  few,  intrepid,  sound, 
Good,  and  addicted  to  conceptions  high  : 
When  tempests  shake  the  world,  and  fire  the  sky, 
It  rests  in  adamant  self-wrapt  around, 
As  sate  from  envy,  and  from  outrage  rude, 
From  hopes  and  fears  that  vulgar  minds  abuse, 
As  fond  of  genius  and  fix'd  fortitude, 
Of  the  resounding  lyre,  and  every  Muse, 
Weak  you  wrll  find  it  only  in  one  part, 
Now  pierced  with  love's  immedicable  dart* 

2  i  2 


366 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

WHICH  THE    AUTHOR  HEARD    SINd   ON  NEW  YEAR'S  DAY,  1702. 

Whence  is  it.  that  amazed  I  hear 

From  yonder  wuher'd  spray, 
This  foremost  morn  of  all  the  year, 

The  melody  of  May. 

And  why,  since  thousands  would  be  proud 

Of  such  a  favor  shown, 
And  I  selected  from  the  crowd, 

To  witness  it  alone  ? 

Sing'st  thou,  sweet  Philomel,  to  me, 

For  that  I  also  long 
Have  practised  in  the  groves,  like  thee, 

Though  not  like  thee  in  song? 

Or  sing'st  thou  Bather  under  force 

Of  some  divm-i  command, 
Commision'd  to  presage  a  course 

Of  happier  days  at  hand? 

Thrice  welcome,  then  !  for  many  a  long 

And  joyless  year  have  I, 
As  thou  to-dh/,  put  forth  my  song, 

Beneath  a  w  in  try  sky. 

But  thee  no  wintry  skies  can  harm, 

Who  only  need'st  to  sing, 
To  mai\.c  e  en  January  charm, 

And  every  sea^ou  spring. 


367 


TO  WILLIAM  WILBERFORCE.     1792, 

Thy  country,  \Vilberforce,  with  just  disdain, 
Hears  thee  by  cruel  men  and  impious  called 
Fanatic,  for  thy  zeal  to  loose  th'enthrall'd 
From  exile,  public  sale,  and  slavery's  chain. 
Friend  of  the  poor,  the  wronged,  the  fetter-gall'd, 
Fear  not,  lest  labour  such  as  thine  be  vain. 
Thou  hast  achieved  a  part ;    hast  gain'd  the  ear 
Of  Britain's  senate  to  thy  glorious  cause  ; 
Hope  smiles,  joy  springs,  and  though  cold  caution  pause 
And  weave  delay,  the  better  hour  is  near 
That  shall  remunerate  thy  toils  severe, 
By  peace  for  Afric,  fenced  with  British  laws. 
Enjoy  what  thou  hast  won,  esteeem  and  love 
From  al*  the  just  on  earth,  and  all  the  bless'd  above. 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESQ.     1793. 

Dear  architect  of  fine  CHATEAUX  in  air, 
Worthier  to  stand  for  ever,  if  they  could, 
Than  any  built  of  stone,  or  yet  of  wood, 
For  back  of  royal  elephant  to  bear! 
O  tor  permission  from  the  skies  to  share, 
Much  to  my  own,  though  little  to  thy  good, 
\Vith  thee  (not  subject  to  the  jealous  mood!) 
A  partnership  of  literary  ware! 
But  I  am  bankrupt  now ;    and  doom'd  henceforth 
To  drudge,  in  descant  dry,  on  others'  lays: 
Bards,  I  acknowledge,  of  unequall'd  worth  ! 
But  what  is  commentator's  happiest  praise? 
That  he  has  furnish'd  lights  for  other  eyes, 
Which  they,  who  need  them,  use,  and  then  despite. 


SG8 


VERSES 

SENT    TO    IADY    AUSTEN,    DURING    THE    TIME    OP    A 
FLOOD,    AUGUST,    1782. 

To  watch  the  storms,  and  hear  the  sky 
Give  all  our  almanacs  the  lie: 
To  shake  with  cold,  and  see  the  plains 
In  autumn  drown' d  with  wintry  rains; 
'Tis  thus  I  spend  my  moments  here, 
And  wish  myself  a  Dutch  mynheer  ; 
I  then  should  have  no  need  of  wit : 
For  lumpish  Hollander  unfit! 
Nor  should  I  then  repine  at  mud, 
Or  meadows  deluged  with  a  flood ; 
But  in  a  bog  live  well  content, 
And  find  it  just  my  element : 
Should  be  a  clod,  and  not  a  man ; 
Nor  wish  in  vain  for  sister  Ann, 
With  charitable  aid  to  drag 
My  mind  out  of  its  proper  quag  ; 
Should  have  the  genius  of  a  boor, 
And  no  ambition  to  have  more. 


SONG  ON  PEACE. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE    REQUEST  OF    LADY  AUSTEN,   1783. 

No  longer  I  follow  a  sound ; 
No  longer  a  dream  I  pursue  : 

0  happiness  !  not  to  be  found. 
Unattainable  treasure,  adieu ! 

1  have  sought  thee  in  splendor  and  dress, 

In  the  regions  of  pleasure  and  taste  ; 

1  have  sought  thee,  and  seem'd  to  possess, 

But  have  proved  thee  a  vision  at  last. 

An  humble  ambition  and  hope 

The  voice  of  true  wisdom  inspires  ; 

'Tis  sufficient,  if  Peace  be  the  scope, 
And  the  summit  of  all  our  desires. 


Peace  may  be  the  lot  of  the  mind 
That  seeks  it  in  meekness  and  love 

But  rapture  and  bliss  are  confined 
To  the  glorified  spirits  above. 


SONG, 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF  LADY  AUSTEN. 

WHEN  all  within  is  peace, 

How  nature  seems  to  smile  I 
Delights  that  never  cease, 

The  livelong  day  beguile. 
From  morn  to  dewy  eve, 

With  open  hands  she  showers 
Fresh  blessings  to  deceive 

And  soothe  the  silent  hours. 

It  is  content  of  heart 

Gives  nature  power  to  please ; 
The  mind  that  feels  no  smart, 

Enlivens  all  it  sees  ; 
Can  make  a  wintry  sky 

Seem  bright  as  smiling  May, 
And  evening's  closing  eye 

As  peep  of  early  day. 

The  vast  majestic  globe, 

So  beauteously  array'd 
in  nature's  various  robe, 

Wiih  wondrous  skill  display* d» 
Is  to  a  mourner's  heart 

A  dreary  wild  at  best ; 
It  H utters  to  depart, 

And  longs  to  be  at  rest. 


370 


TO  GEORGE  ROMNEY,  ESQ. 

ON    HIS    PICTURE    OF     ME    IN    CRAYONS,    DRAWN    AT 
EARTHAM.        1792. 

Romney,  expert  infallibly  to  trace 
On  chart  or  canvass,  not  the  form  alone, 
And  semblance,  but  however  faintly  shown, 
The  mind's  impression  too  on  every  face — 
With  strokes  that  time  ought  never  to  erase, 
Thou  hast  so  pencill'd  mine,  that  though  I  own 
Ttie  subject  worthless,  I  have  never  known 
The  artist  shining  with  superior  grace. 
But  this  I  mark — that  symptoms  none  of  woe 
In  thy  incomparable  work  appear, 
Well — I  am  satisfied  it  should  be  so, 
Since,  on  maturer  thought,  the  cause  is  clear; 
For  in  my  looks  what  sorrow  couldst  thou  see 
When  I  was  Hayley's  guest,  and  sat  to  thee  ? 


TO    MY    COUSIN    ANNE    BODHAM,  ON    RECEIVING    FROM 
HER    A    PURSE.        1793. 

MY  gentle  Anne,  whom  heretofore, 
When  I  was  young,  and  thou  no  more 

Than  plaything  for  a  nurse, 
I  danced  and  fondled  on  my  knee, 
A  kitten  both  in  size  and  glee, 

I  thank  thee  for  my  purse. 

Gold  pays  the  worth  of  all  things  here  ; 
But  not  of  love  ; — that  gem's  too  dear 

For  richest  rogues  to  win  it ; 
I  therefore,  as  a  proof  of  love, 
Estee-n  thy  present  far  above 

The  best  things  kept  within  it. 


EPITAPH  ON  JOHNSON. 

JANUARY,     1785. 

Here  Jchnson  lies — a  sas^e  by  all  allow'd, 
Whom  to  have  bred,  may  well  make  England  proud, 


.    371 

Whose  prose  was  eloquence,  by  wisdom  taught, 

The  graceful  vehicle  of  virtuous  thought; 

\Vhose  verse  may  claim — grave,  masculine,  and  strong, 

Superior  praise  to  the  mere  poet's  song  ; 

Who  many  a  noble  gift  from  heaven  possess1  d, 

Arid  faith  at  last,  alone  worth  all  the  rest. 

O  man,  immortal  by  a  double  prize, 

By  fame  on  earth, — by  glory  iii  the  skies ! 


THE  BIRD'S  NEST,  A  TALE.     1793. 

This  Tale  is  founded  on  an  anecdote  which  the  Author  found  in  the 
Buckinghamshire  Herald,  for  Saturday,  June  1st,  1793,  in  the  following 
words : 

Glisgoio,  May  23. — In  a  block  or  pulley,  near  the  head  of  the  mast  of 
a  gabert,  now  lying  at  the  Broomielaw,  there  is  a  Chaffinch's  nest  and 
four  eggs.  The  nest  was  built  while  the  vessel  lay  at  Greenoek,  and  was 
followed  hither  by  both  birds.  Though  the  block  is  occasionally  lowered 
for  the  inspection  of  the  curious,  the  birds  have  not  forsaken  the  nest. 
The  cock,  however,  visits  the  nest  but  seldom,  while  the  hen  never 
leaves  it,  but  when  she  descends  to  the  hull  for  food. 

IN  Scotland's  realm,  where  trees  are  few, 

Nor  even  shrubs  abound  ; 
But  where,  however  bleak  the  view, 

Some  better  things  are  found ! 

For  husband  there  and  wife  may  boast 

Their  union  undefiled, 
And  false  ones  are  as  rare  almost, 

As  hedge-rows  in  the  wild. 

In  Scotland's  realm  forlorn  and  bare, 

The  history  chanced  of  late — 
This  history  of  a  wedded  pair, 

A  chaffinch  and  his  mate. 

The  spring  drew  near,  each  felt  a  breast 

With  genial  instinct  fill'd  : 
They  paired  and  would  have  built  a  nest, 

But  found  not  where  to  build. 

The  heaths  uncovered  and  the  moors, 

Except  with  snow  and  sleet, 
Sea-beaten  rocks  and  naked  shores 

Could  yield  them  no  retreat. 


372 

Long  time  a  breeding-place  they  sought, 
Till  both  grew  vex'd  and  tired  ; 

At  length  a  ship  arriving,  brought 
The  good  so  long  desired. 

A  ship!  —  could  such  a  restless  thing 

Afford  them  place  of  rest  ? 
Or  was  the  merchant  charged  to  bring 
The  homeless  birds  a  nest  ? 

Hush  !  —  silent  hearers  profit  most  — 

This  racer  of  the  sea 
Proved  kinder  to  them  than  the  coast, 

It  served  them  with  a  tree. 

But  such  a  tree  !  'twas  shaven  deal, 

The  tree  they  call  a  mast, 
And  had  a  hollow,  with  a  wheel 

Through  which  the  ta'ckle  pass'd. 

Within  that  cavity  aloft, 

Their  roofless  home  they  fix'd  ; 

Formed  with  materials  neat  and  soft, 
Bents,  wool,  and  feathers  mixed. 

Four  ivory  eggs  soon  pave  its  floor, 

With  russet  specks  bedight, 
The  vessel  weighs,  forsakes  the  shore, 

And  lessens  to  the  sight. 

The  mother  bird  is  gone  to  sea, 
As  she  had  changed  her  kind  ; 

But  goes  the  male  ?  Far  wiser  he, 
Is  doubtless  left  behind  1 


I  —  Soon  as  from  the  shore  he  saw 
The  winged  mansion  move, 
He  flew  to  reach  it,  by  a  law 
Of  never-failing  love. 

Then  perching  at  his  consort's  side, 

Was  briskly  borne  along, 
The  billows  and  the  blast  defied, 

And  cheered  her  with  a  song. 

The  seaman  with  sincere  delight, 
His  feathered  shipmates  eyes, 


373 

Scarce  less  exulting  in  the  sight 
Thau  when  he  tows  a  prize. 

For  seamen  much  believe  in  signs, 
And  from  a  chance  so  new, 

Each  some  approaching  good  divinea, 
And  may  his  hopes  be  true  ! 

Hail,  honored  land !  a  desert  where 

Not  even  birds  can  hide, 
Yet  parent  of  this  loving  pair 

Whom  nothing  could  divide. 

And  ye  who  rather  than  resign 

Your  matrimonial  plan, 
Where  not  afraid  to  plough  the  brine 

In  company  with  man. 

To  whose  lean  country  much  disdain 

We  English  oi'ten  show, 
Yet  from  a  richer  nothing  gain 

But  wantonness  and  woe. 

Be  it  your  fortune  year  by  year, 
The  same  resource  to  prove, 

And  may  ye  sometimes,  landing  here, 
Instruct  us  how  to  love. 


FIFTH  SATIRE  OF  THE  FIRST  BOOK  OP 
HORACE.     1759. 

A    HUMOROUS    DESCRIPTION    OF    THE    AUTHOR'S    JOURNEY 
FROM    ROME    TO    BRUNDUSIUM. 

'Twas  a  long  journey  lay  before  js, 
When  I,  and  honest  iieliodorus, 
Who  tar  in  point  ot  rhetoric 
Surpasses  ev'ry  living  Greek, 
Each  leaving  our  respective  home 
Together  sallied  forth  from  Rome. 

2  K 


374 

First  at  Aricia  we  alight, 
And  there  refresh,  and  pass  thp  night, 
Our  entertainment  rather  coarse 
Than  sumptuous,  but  I've  met  with  woree. 
Thence  o'er  the  causeway  soft  and  fair 
To  Appii  Forum  we  repair. 
But  as  this  road  is  well  supplied 
(Temptation  strong  !)  on  either  side 
With  inns  commodious,  snug,  and  warm, 
We  split  the  journey,  and  perform 
In  two  days'  time  what's  often  done 
By  brisker  travellers  in  one. 
Here,  rather  choosing  not  to  sup 
Than  with  bad  water  mix  my  cup, 
After  a  warm  debate,  in  spite 
Of  a  provoking  appetite, 
I  sturdily  resolved  at  last 
To  baulk  it,  and  pronounce  a  fast, 
And  in  a  moody  humour  wait. 
While  my  less  dainty  comrades  bait 
Now  o'er  the  spangled  hemisphere 
Diffused  the  starry  train  appear, 
When  there  arose  a  desp'rate  brawl: 
The  slaves  and  bargemen,  one  and  all, 
Rending  their  throats  (have  mercy  on  usl) 
As  if  they  were  resolved  to  stun  us, 
"  Steer  the  barge  this  way  to  the  shore ; 
I  tell  you  we'll  admit  no  more  ; 
Plague  !    will  you  never  be  content?" 
Thus  a  whole  hour  at4east  is  spent, 
While  they  receive  the  sev'ral  fares, 
And  kick  the  mule  into  his  gears. 
Happy,  these  difficulties  past, 
Could  we  have  fall'n  asleep  at  last! 
But,  what  with  humming,  croaking,  biting, 
Gnats,  fi-ogs,  and  all  their  plagues  uniting. 
These  tuneful  natives  of  the  lake 
Conspired  to  keep  us  broad  awake. 
Besides,  to  make  the  concert  full, 
Two  maudlin  wights,  exceeding  dull, 
The  bargeman  and  a  passenger, 
Each  in  his  turn,  essay'd  an  air, 
In  honor  of  his  absent  fair. 
At  length  the  passenger,  opprest 
With  wine,  left  off,  and  snored  the  rest* 
The  weary  bargeman  too  gave  o'er, 
And  hearing  his  companions  snore, 
Seized  the  occasion,  tix'd  the  barge, 
Turn'd  out  his  mule  to  graze  at  lar^e, 


375 

And  slept  forgetful  of  his  charge. 
Ami  now  the  sun  o'er  eastern  hill, 
Discover'd  that  our  barge  stood  still  ; 
When  one,  whose  anger  vex'd  him  sore, 
With  malice  fraught,  leaps  quick  on  shore; 

lucks  up  a  stake,  with  many  a  thwack 
•\sstiils  the  mule  and  driver's  back. 

Then  slowly  moving  on  with  pain, 
At  ten  Feronia's  stream  we  gain, 
And  in  her  pure  and  glassy  wave 
Our  hands  and  faces  gladly  lave. 
Climbing  three  miles,  fair  Anxur's  height 
We  reach,  with  stony  quarries  white. 
While  here,  as  was  agreed,  we  wait, 
Till,  charged  witli  business  of  the  state, 
M  L'cenas  and  Cocceius  come, 
The  messengers  of  peace  from  Rome. 
My  eyes,  by  wat'ry  humours  blear 
And  sore,  I  with  black  balsam  smear. 
At  length  they  join  us,  and  with  them 
Our  worthy  friend  Fonteius  came  ; 
A  man  of  such  complete  desert, 
Antony  loved  him  at  his  heart. 
At  Fundi  we  refused  to  bait, 
And  laugh'd  at  vain  Aufidius'  state, 
A  praetor  now,  a  scribe  before, 
The  purple-border' d  robe  he  wore, 
His  slave  the  smoking  censer  bore. 
Tired,  at  Muraenas  we  repose, 
At  Formia  sup  at  C'apito's. 

With  smiles  the  rising  morn  we  greet, 
At  Sinnes^a  pleased  to  meet 
With  I'lotius,  Varius,  and  the  bard, 
Whom  Mantua  first  with  wonder  heard. 
The  world  no  purer  spirits  knows  ; 
For  none  my  heart  more  warmly  glows. 
O  !  what  embraces  we  bestowed, 
And  with  what  joy  our  hearts  o'erflow'd  1 
Sure,  while  my  sense  is  sound  and  clear, 
Long  as  I  live,  I  shall  prefer 
A  gay,  good  natured,  easy  friend, 
To  ev'ry  blessing  Heav'ncan  send. 
At  a  small  village  the  next  night 
Near  the  Vulturnous  we  alight; 
Where,  as  employ'd  on  state  affairs, 
We  were  supplied  by  the  purvey 'rs 
Frankly  at  once,  and  without  hire, 
With  food  for  man  and  horse,  and  fire. 
Capua  next  day  betimes  we  reach, 


376 

Where  Virgil  and  myself,  who  each 

Labour' d  with  different  maladies, 

His  such  a  stomach,  mine  such  eyes, 

As  would  not  bear  strong  exercise, 

In  drowsy  mood  to  sleep  resort ; 

Maecenas  to  the  tennis-court. 

Next  at  Cocceius's  farm  we're  treated, 

Above  the  Caudian  tavern  seated ; 

His  kind  and  hospitable  board 

With  choice  of  wholesome  food  was  stored. 

Now,  O  ye  Nine,  inspire  my  lays! 
To  nobler  themes  my  fancy  raise  ! 
Two  combatants,  who  scorn  to  yield 
The  noisy,  tongue-disputed  field, 
Sarmentus  and  Cicirrus,  claim 
A  poet's  tribute  to  their  fame  ; 
Cicirrus  of  true  Oscian  breed, 
Sarmentus,  who  was  never  freed, 
But  ran  away.     We  don't  defame  him  ; 
His  lady  lives,  and  still  may  claim  him. 
Thus  dignified,  in  harder  fray 
These  champions  their  keen  wit  display, 
And  first  Sarmentus  led  the  way. 
"Thy  locks  (quoth  he),  so  rough  and  coarse, 
Look  like  the  mane  of  some  wild  horse." 
We  laugh  :    Cicirrus  undisrnay'd — 
"  Have  at  you  !" — cries,  and  shakes  his  head. 
" 'Tis  well  (Sarmenus  says)  you've  lost 
That  horn  your  forehead  once  could  boast ; 
Since,  maim'd  and  mangled  as  you  are, 
You  seem  to  butt."     A  hideous  scar 
Improved  ('tis  true)  with  double  grace 
The  native  horrors  of  his  face.  ^ 
Well.     After  much  jocosely  said 
Of  his  grim  front,  so  fiery  red 
(For  carbuncles  had  blotch'd  it  o'er, 
As  usual  on  Campania's  shore), 
"  Give  us  (he  cried),  since  you're  so  big, 
A  sample  of  the  Cyclops'  jig  ! 
Your  shanks  methinks  no  buskins  ask, 
>Tw  does  your  phiz  require  a  mask." 
To  this  Cicirrus.     "  In  return 
Of  you,  Sir,  now  I  fain  would  learn, 
When  'twas,  no  longer  deem'd  a  slave, 
Your  chains  you  to  the  Lares  gave. 
For  tho'  a  scriv'ner's  riglit  your  claim, 
Your  ladys'  title  is  the  same. 
But  what  could  make  you  run  away, 
Since,  pigmy  as  you  are,  each  day 


377 

A  single  pound  of  bread  would  quite 
O'erpow'r  your  puny  appetite  ?" 
Thus  joked  Hie  champions,  while  we  laugh'd, 
And  many  a  cheerful  bumper  quafTd. 

To  Beneventum  next  we  steer ; 
Where  our  o-0od  host  by  over  care, 

, 

In  roasting  thrushes  lean  as  mice, 
Had  almost  fall'n  a  sacrifice. 
The  kitchen  soon  was  all  on  fire, 
And  to  the  roof  the  flames  aspire. 
There  mi/ht  you  see  each  man  and  master 
Striving,  amidst  the  sad  disaster, 
To  s  ive  the  supper.     Then  they  came 
With  speed  enough  to  quench  the  flame. 
From  hence  we  first  at  distance  see 
Th'Apulian  hills,  well  known  to  me, 
Parch'd  by  the  sidtry  western  blast ; 
And  which  we  never  should  have  past, 
Had  not  Trivicius  by  the  way 
Received  us  at  the  close  of  day. 
But  each  was  forced  at  ent'ring  here 
To  pay  the  tribute  of  a  tear, 
For  more  of  smoke  than  fire  was  seen — 
The  earth  was  piled  with  logs  so  green. 
From  hence  in  chaises  we  were  carried 
Miles  twenty-four,  and  gladly  tarried 
At  a  small  town,  whose  name  my  versa 
(So  barb'rous  is  it)  can't  rehearse. 
Know  it  you  may  by  many  a  sign, 
Water  is  dearer  far  than  wine. 
There  bread  is  deem'd  such  dainty  fare, 
That  ev'ry  prudent  traveller 
His  wallet  loads  with  many  a  crust; 
For  at  Canusium  you  might  just 
As  well  attempt  to  gnaw  a  stone 
As  think  to  get  a  morsel  down : 
That  too  with  scanty  streams  is  fed  ; 
Its  founder  was  brave  Diomed. 
Good  Varius  (ah,  that  friends  must  part !) 
Here  left  us  all  with  aching  heart. 
At  Rubi  we  arrived  that  day, 
Well  jaded  by  the  length  of  way, 
And  sure  poor  mortals  ne'er  were  wetter: 
Next  day  no  weather  could  be  better  ; 
No  roads  so  bad  ;    we  scarce  could  crawl 
Along  to  fishy  Barium's  wall. 
Th'Egnati  ins  next,  who  by  the  rules 
Of  common  sense  are  knaves  or  fools, 
Made  all  ~Mr  sides  with  laughter  heave 

2  K  2 


378 

Since  we  with  them  must  needs  believe, 

That  incense  in  their  temples  burns, 

And  without  fire  to  ashes  turns. 

To  circumcision's  bigots  tell 

Such  tales!    for  me,  I  know  full  well 

That  in  high  Heav'n,  unmoved  by  care, 

The  Gods  eternal  quiet  share  ; 

Nor  can  I  deem  their  spleen  the  cause, 

\Vhy  tickle  nat.^e  breaks  her  laws. 

Brundusium  last  we  reach  :    and  there 

Stop  short  the  muse  and  traveller. 


NINTH  SATIRE  OF  THE  FIRST  BOOK 
OF  HORACE. 

THE    DESCRIPTION    OF   AN    IMPERTINENT. 

(Adapted  to  the  present  times,  17  59.) 

Saunt'ring  along  the  street  one  day, 
On  trifles  musing  by  the  way — • 
Up  steps  a  free  familiar  wight, 
(I  scarcely  knew  the  man  by  sight), 
"Carlos  (he  cried),  your  hand,  my  dear  I 
Gad,  I  rejoice  to  meet  you  here  ! 
Pray  Heav'n  I  see  you  well  ?"     "  So  so; 
Ev'n  well  enough  as  times  now  go. 
The  same  good  wishes,  Sir,  to  you." 
Finding  he  still  pursusd  me  close — 
"  Sir,  you  h  ive  business,  I  suppose." 
"  My  business,  Sir,  is  quickly  done, 
'Tis  but  to  make  my  merit  known. 
Sir,  I  have  read" — "  O  learned  Sir, 
You  and  your  learning  1  revere." 
Then  sweating  with  anxiety, 
And  sadly  longing  to  get  free, 
Gods,  how  I  scamper'd,  scuffled  for't, 
Ran,  halted,  ran  again,  stopp'd  short, 
Beckon'd  my  boy,  and  pull'd  him  near, 
And  whisper'd  nothing  in  his  ear. 

Teased  with  his  loose  unjointed  chat — 
"  What  <;t/eet  is  this  (    What  house  is  that?" 
O  Harlow,  how  I  envied  thee 
Thy  unabash'd  effrontery, 


379 

Who  dar'st  a  foe  with  freedom  blame, 
And  call  a  coxcomb  by  his  name ! 
When  I  recurn'd  him  answer  none, 
Obligingly  the  fool  ran  on: 
"  I  see  you're  dismally  distress'd, 
Would  give  the  world  to  be  released, 
But,  by  your  leave,  Sir,  I  shall  still 
Stick  to  your  skirts,  do  what  you  will ; 
Pray  which  way  does  your  journey  tend  ?" 
"  O,  'tis  a  tedious  way,  my  friend  ; 
Across  the  Thames,  the  Lord  knows  where; 
I  would  not  trouble  you  so  far." 
"  Well,  I'm  at  leisure  to  attenJ  you." 
"  Are  you  ?  (thought  I)  the  De'il  befriend  you1" 
No  ass  with  double  panniers  rack'd, 
Oppress'd,  o'erladen,  broken-back'd, 
E'er  look'd  a  thousandth  part  so  dull 
As  I,  nor  half  so  like  a  fool. 
"  Sir,  I  know  little  of  myself, 
(Proceeds  the  pert,  conceited  elf) 
If  Gray  or  Mason  you  will  deem 
Than  me  more  worthy  your  esteem 
Poems  I  write  by  folios 
As  fast  as  other  men  write  prose  ; 
Then  I  can  sing  so  loud  so  clear, 
That  Beard  cannot  with  me  compare. 
In  dancing,  too,  I  all  surpass, 
Not  Cooke  can  move  with  such  a  grace." 
Here  I  made  shift  with  much  ado, 
To  interpose  a  word  or  two — 
"  Have  you  no  parents,  Sir,  no  friends, 
Whose  welfare  on  your  own  depends  ?" 
"  Parents,  relations,  say  you  ?  No. 
They're  all  disposed  of  long  ago." — 
*  Happy  to  be  no  more  perplex'd ! 
My  fate  too  threatens,  1  go  next. 
Dispatch  me,  Sir,  'tis  now  too  late, 
Alas  !    to  struggle  with  my  fate  ! 
Well  I'm  convinced  my  time  is  come- 
When  young,  a  gipsy  told  my  doom. 
The  beluame  shook  her  palsied  head, 
As  she  perused  my  palm,  and  said  : 
Of  poison,  pestilence,  or  war, 
Gout,  stone,  defluxion,  or  catarrh, 
You  have  no  reason  to  beware. 
Beware  the  coxcomb's  idle  prate ; 
Chiefly,  my  son,  beware  of  that. 
Be  sure,  when  you  behold  him,  fly 
Out  of  all  earshot,  or  you  die." 


380 

To  Rufus'  Hall  we  now  draw  near ; 
Where  he  was  summon'd  to  appear, 
Refute  the  charge  the  plaintiff  brought, 
Or  suffer  judgment  by  default. 
"  For  Heav'n's  sake,  if  you  love  me,  wait 
One  moment!    I'll  be  with  you  straight." 
Glad  of  a  plausible  pretence — 
"  Sir,  I  must  beg  you  to  dispense 
With  my  attendance  in  the  court, 
My  legs  will  surely  suffer  for't." 
"  Nay,  pr'ythee,  Carlos,  stop  awhile!" 
"  Faith,  Sir,  in  law  I  have  no  skill. " 
Besides,  I  have  no  time  to  spare  ; 
I  must  be  going,  you  know  where." 
"  Well,  I  protest  I'm  doubtful  now, 
Whether  to  leave  my  suit  or  you !" 
"  Me,  without  scruple!   (I  reply) 
Me,  by  all  means,  Sir!" — "No,  not  I. 
Allans,  Monsieur!"   'Twere  vain  (you  know) 
To  strive  with  a  victorious  foe. 
So  I  reluctantly  obey, 
And  follow,  where  he  leads  the  way. 

"You  and  Newcastle  are  so  close, 
Still  hand  and  glove,  Sir — I  suppose." 
"Newcastle  (let  me  tell  you,  Sir) 
Has  not  his  equal  every  where." 
"  Well.     There,  indeed,  your  fortune's  made. 
Faith,  Sir,  you  understand  your  trade. 
Would  you  but  give  me  your  good  word, 
Just  introduce  me  to  my  lord. 
I  should  serve  charmingly  by  way 
Of  second  fiddle,  as  they  say  ; 
What  think  you,  Sir?   'twere  a  good  jest. 
'Slife,  we  should  quickly  scout  the  rest." — 
"  Sir,  you  mistake  the  matter  far, 
We  have  no  second  fiddles  there.  — 
Richer  than  I  some  folks  may  be; 
More  learned,  but  it  hurts  not  me. 
Friends  though  he  has  of  diff  rent  kind, 
Each  has  his  proper  place  assign'd." 
"  Strange  matters  these  alleged  by  you  !" 
"  Strange  they  may  be,  uut  they  are  true.*' 
"  Well  then,  I  vow  'tis  mighty  clever, 
Now  I  long  ten  times  more  than  ever 
To  be  advanced  extremely  near 
One  of  his  shining  character. 
Have  but  the  will — there  wants  no  more, 
'  Tis  plain  enough  you  h.ive  the  power. 
His  easy  temper  (that's  the  worst) 


SSI 

He  knows,  and  is  so  shy  at  first.— 

But  such  a  cavalier  as  you — 

Lord,  Sir,  you'll  quickly  bring  him  to!— • 

\VelI  ;   if  I  fail  in  my  design, 

Sir,  it  shall  he  no  fault  of  mine. 

If  by  the  saucy  servile  tribe 

Denied,  what  think  you  of  a  bribe? 

Shut  out  to-day,  not  die  with  sorrow, 

But  try  my  luck  again  to-morrow. 

Never  attempt  to  visit  him 

But  at  the  most  convenient  time, 

Attend  him  on  each  levee  day 

And  there  my  humble  duty  pay: 

Labour,  like  this,  our  want  supplies ; 

And  they  must  stoop,  who  mean  to  rise." 

While  thus  he  wittingly  harangued, 
For  which  you'll  guess  I  wish'd  bim  hang'd, 
Campley,  a  friend  of  mine,  came  by, 
Who  knew  his  humour  more  than  I. 
We  stop,  salute,  and — "  Why  so  fast, 
Friend  Carlos?   Whither  all  this  haste?" 
Fired  at  the  thoughts  of  a  reprieve, 
I  pinch  hi'ii,  pull  him,  twitch  his  sleeve, 
Nod,  beckon,  bite  my  lips,  wink,  pout, 
Do  ev'ry  thing  but  speak  plain  out: 
While  he,  sad  dog,  from  the  beginning 
Determined  to  mistake  my  meaning; 
Instead  of  pitying  my  curse, 
By  jeering  made  it  ten  times  worse. 
"Campley,  what  secret  (pray!)   was  that 
You  wanted  to  communicate  ?" 
"  I  recollect.      But  'tis  no  matter. 
Carlos,  we'll  talk  of  that  hereafter. 
E'en  let  the  secret  rest.     'Twill  tell 
Another  time,  Sir,  just  as  well." 

VV'as  ever  such  a  dismal  day  ? 
Unlucky  cur,  he  steals  away, 
And  leaves  me,  half  bereft  of  life, 
At  mercy  of  ihe  butcher's  knife  ; 
When  sudden  shouting  from  afar, 
See  his  antagonist  appear! 
The  bailiff  seized  him  quick  as  thought 
'  Ho,  Mr.  Scoundrel!   Are  you  caught? 
Sir,  you  are  witness  to  th'arrest." 
"  Aye,  marry,  Sir,  I'll  do  my  best." 
The  mob  hu/zas.     Away  they  trudge, 
Culprit  and  a'l,  be 'ore  the  judge. 
Meanwhile   I  luckily  enough 
(Thanks  to  Apollo,)  got  clear  off. 


TRANSLATIONS 

OF    THE 

LATIN  AND  ITALIAN  POEMS  OF  MILTON. 


[BEGUN  SEPTEMBER  1791 ;  FINISHED  MARCH  1792.] 


ELEGIES. 
ELEGY  I. 

TO    CHARLES    DEODATI. 

At  length,  my  friend,  the  far-sent  letters  come, 
Charged  with  thy  kindness,  to  their  destined  home 
They  come,  at  length,  from  Deva's  western  side, 
Where  prone  she  seeks  the  salt  Vergivian  tide. 
Trust  me,  my  joy  is  great,  that  thou  shouldst  he 
Though  born  of  foreign  race,  yet  born  for  me, 
And  that  my  sprightly  friend,  now  free  to  roam, 
Must  seek  again  so  soon  his  wonted  home. 
I,  well  content,  where  Thames  with  inHuent  tide 
My  native  city  laves,  meantime  reside; 
Nor  zeal  nor  duty,  now,  my  steps  impel 
To  reedy  Cam,  and  my  forbidden  cell. 
Nor  aught  of  pleasure  in  those  fields  have  I, 
That,  to  the  musing  bard,  all  shade  deny. 
'Tis  time  that  I  a  pedant's  threats  disdain, 
And  rly  from  wrongs  my  soul  will  ne'er  sustain. 
If  peaceful  days,  in  letter'd  leisure  spent 
Beneath  my  father's  roof,  be  banishment, 
Then  call  me  banish'd;   1  will  ne'er  refuse 
A  name  expressive  of  the  lot  I  choose. 
I  would  that,  exiled  to  the  Politic  shore, 
Rome's  hapless  bard  had  suffer' d  nothing  more. 
He  then  had  equall'd  even  Homer's  lays, 
And,  Virgil!   thou  hadst  won  bat  second  praise: 
For  here  I  woo  the  muse  with  no  control : 
And  here  my  books — my  life— absorb  me  whole. 


3S3 

Here  too  1  visit,  or  to  smile,  or  weep, 

The  winding  theatre's  majestic  sweep; 

The  grave  or  gay  colloquial  scene  recruits 

My  spirits,  spent  in  learning's  long  pursuit*  | 

Whether  some  senior  shrewd,  or  spendthrift 

Suitor  or  soldier,  now  unarm'd,  be  there, 

Or  some  coif  d  brooder  o'er  a  ten  years'  cause, 

Thunder  the  Norman  gibb'rish  of  the  laws. 

The  lacquey,  there,  oft  dupes  the  wary  sire, 

And  artful,  speeds  th'  enamour'd  son's  desire. 

There,  virgins  oft,  unconscious  what  they  prove, 

What  love  is,  known  not,  yet  unknowing  love. 

Or  if  impassion'd  Tragedy  wield  high 

The  bloody  sceptre,  give  her  locks  to  fly 

Wild  as  the  winds,  and  roll  her  haggard  eye, 

I  gaze,  and  grieve,  still  cherishing  my  grief, 

At  times,  e'en  bitter  tears!  yield  sweet  relief. 

As  when  from  bliss  untasted  torn  away, 

Some  youth  dies,  hapless,  on  his  bridal  day, 

Or  when  the  ghost  sent  back  from  shades  below, 

Fills  the  assassin's  heart  with  vengeful  woe. 

When  Troy  or  Argos,  the  dire  scene  affords, 

Or  Creon's  hall  laments  its  guilty  lords. 

Nor  always  city-pent,  or  pent  at  home, 

I  dwell ;  but  when  spring  calls  me  forth  to  roam, 

Expatiate  in  our  proud  suburban  shades 

Of  branching  elm,  that  never  sun  prevades. 

Here  many  a  virgin  troap  I  may  descry, 

Like  stars  of  mildest  inHuence,  gliding  by. 

Oh  forms  divine  !  Oil  looks  that  might  inspire 

E'en  Jove  himself,  grown  old,  with  young  desire, 

Oft  have  I  gazed  on  gem-surpassing  eyes, 

Out-spark'ing  ev'ry  star  that  gilds  the  skies. 

Necks  whiter  than  the  ivory  arm  bestow'd 

By  Jove  on  Pelops,  or  the.  .nilky  road  ! 

Bright  locks,  Love's  golden  snare!  tliese  falling  low, 

Those  playing  wanton  o'er  the  graceful  brow  ! 

Cheeks  too,  more  winning  sweet  than  after  show'r 

Adonis  turn'd  to  Flora's  tav'iite  flower! 

Yield,  heroines,  yield,  and  he  who  shared  th'  emb:  :ic 

Of  Jupiter  in  a-ncient  times,  give  place! 

Give  place,  ye  turban'd  fair  of  Persia's  coast! 

And  ye,  not  less  renovvn'd,  Assyria's  boa^t 

Submit,  ye  nymphs  of  Greece!  ye,  once  the  bloom 

Of  Ilion  !  and  all  ye,  of  haughty  Rome, 

Who  swept,  of  old,  her  theatres  with  trains 

Redundant,  and  still  live  in  classic  strains! 

To  British  damsels  beauty's  palm  is  due, 

Aliens  !  to  follow  them  is  fame  tor  you. 


254 

Oh  city,  founded  by  Dardanian  hands, 

Whose  tow'ring  front  Me  circling  realms  command^ 

Too  blest  abode  !  no  loveliness  we  see 

In  all  the  earth,  but  it  abounds  in  thee. 

The  virgin  multitude  that  daily  metts, 

Radiant  with  gold  and  beauty,  in  thy  streets, 

Out-numbers  all  her  train  of  starry  fires, 

With  whicli  Diana  gilds  thy  lofty  spires. 

Fame  says,  that  wafted  hither  by  her  doves, 

With  all  her  host  of  quiver-bearing  loves, 

Venus,  preferring  Paphian  scenes  no  more, 

Has  fix'd  her  empire  on  thy  nobler  shore, 

But  lest  the  sightless  boy  enforce  my  stay, 

I  leave  these  happy  walls,  while  yet  I  may. 

Immortal  Moly  sh.,11  secure  my  heart 

From  all  the  sorc'ry  of  Cicaean  art, 

And  I  will  e'en  repass  Cam's  reedy  pools 

To  face  one  more  the  warfare  of  the  schools. 

Meantime  accept  this  trifle  !  rhymes  though  few, 

Yet  such,  as  prove  thy  friend's  remembrance  true  I 


ELEGY  II. 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    UNIVERSITY    BEADLE 
AT  CAMBRIDGE. 

Composed  by  Milton,  in  the  17th  year  of  his  age. 

Thee,  whose  refulgent  staff,  and  summons  clear, 
Minerva's  flock  long  time  was  wont  t'  obey, 

Although  thyself  an  herald,  famous  here, 

The  last  of  heralds,  Death,  has  snatch'd  away. 

He  calls  on  all  alike,  nor  even  deigns 
To  spare  the  office,  that  himself  sustains. 

Thv  locks  were  whiter  than  the  plumes  display'd 
By  Lecta's  paTamour  in  ancient  time, 

But  thou  wast  worthy  ne'er  to  have  decay'd, 
Or  yEson-like  to  know  a  second  prime, 

Worthy,  for  whom  some  goddess  should  have  won 

New  life,  oft  kneeling  to  Apollo's  son. 


Commission'd  to  convene,  with  hasty  call, 

The  grwned  tribes,  how  gracelul  wouldst  thou  standl 

So  stood  Cyllenius  erst  in  Priam's  hall, 

Wing-footed  messenger  of  Jove's  command! 

And  so  Eurybates,  when  he  address'd 

To  Peleus'  son,  Atrides'  proud  behest. 

Dread  queen  of  sepulchres  !  whose  rig'rous  '°vvs 
And  watcliful  eyes,  run  through  the  realms  below, 

Oh,  oft  too  adverse  to  Minerva's  cause  ! 
Too  often  to  the  muse  not  less  a  foe  ! 

Choose  meaner  marks,  and  with  more  equal  aim 

Pierce  useless  drones,  earth's  burden,  and  its  shame  1 

Flow,  therefore,  tears  for  him,  from  ev'ry  eye, 

All  y«  disciples  of  the  muses,  weep  ! 
Assembling,  all,  in  robes  of  sable  dye, 

Around  his  bier,  lament  his  endless  sleep! 
And  let  complaining  elegy  rehearse, 
In  ev'ry  school,  her  sweetest,  saddest  verse. 


ELEGY  III. 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    BISHOP    OP 
WINCHESTER. 

Composed  in  the  Author's  1 7th  year. 

Silent  I  sat,  dejected,  and  alone, 
Making,  in  thought,  the  public  woes  my  own, 
When,  first,  arose  the  image  in  my  breast 
Of  England's  suffering  by  that  scourge,  the  Pest! 
How  death,  his  fun'ral  torch  and  scythe  in  hand, 
Entering  the  lordliest  mansions  of  the  land, 
Has  laid  the  gem-illumined  palace  low, 
And  levell'd  tribes  of  nobles  at  a  blow. 
I  next  deplored  the  famed  paternal  pair, 
Too  soon  to  ashes  turn'd,  and  empty  air! 
The  heroes  next,  whom  snatch'd  into  the  skies, 
All  Belgia  saw,  and  follow'd  with  her  sighs, 
But  thee  far  most  I  mourned,  regretted  most, 
Wint'ons  chief  shepherd,  and  her  worthiest  boast ; 
Pour'd  out  in  tears  1  thus  complaining  said: 
*'  Death,  next  in  pow'r  to  him  who  rules  the  deadl 

2  L 


380 

Is't  not  enough  that  all  the  woodlands  yield 
To  thy  fell  force,  and  ev'ry  verdant  field ; 
That  lilies,  at  one  noisome  blast  of  thine, 
And  e'en  the  Cyprian  queen's  own  roses,  pine; 
That  oaks  themselves,  although  the  running  rill 
Suckle  their  roots,  must  wither  at  thy  will 
That  all  the  winged  nations,  even  those 
Whose  heav'n-directed  flight  the  future  shows, 
And  all  the  beasts,  that  in  dark  forests  stray, 
And  all  the  herds  of  Proteus  are  thy  prey. 
Ah  envious!  arm'd  with  pow'rs  so  unconfined ! 
Why  stain  thy  hands  with  blood  of  human  kind  ? 
Why  take  delight,  with  darts,  that  never  roam 
To  chase  a  heav'n-born  spirit  from  her  home  ?" 

VVhile  thus  I  mourn' d,  the  star  of  evening  stood 
Now  newly  ris'n  above  the  western  flood, 
And  Phoebus  from  his  morning-goal  again 
Had  reach  d  the  gulfs  of  the  Iberian  main. 
I  wish'd  repose;  and  on  my  couch  reclined 
Took  early  rest,  to  night  and  sleep  resign'd  : 
When — Oh  for  words  to  paint  what  I  beheld  ! 
I  seem'd  to  wander  in  a  spacious  field, 
Where  all  the  champaign  glow'd  with  purple  light, 
Like  that  of  sun-rise  on  the  mountain  height  ; 
Flow'rs  over  all  the  field,  of  ev'ry  hue 
That  ever  Iris  wore,  luxuriant  grew. 
Nor  Chloris,  with  whom  am'rous  Zephyrs  play, 
E'er  dress'd  Alcinous'  garden  half  so  gay, 
A  silver  current,  like  the  T^gus,  roll'd 
O'er  golden  sands,  but  sands  of  purer  gold; 
With  c'ewy  airs  Favonius  fann'd  the  flow'rs, 
With  airs  awaken'd  under  rosy  bow'rs. 
Such,  poets  feign,  irradiated  all  o'er 
The  sun's  abode  on  India's  utmost  shore. 

While  I,  that  splendor,  and  the  mingled  shade 
Of  fruitful  vines,  with  wonder  fix'd  survey'd, 
Ac  once,  with  looks  that  beam'd  celestial  grace. 
The  seer  of  Winton  stood  before  my  face. 
His  snowy  vesture's  hem  descending  low, 
His  golden  sandals  swept,  and  pure  as  snow 
New-fallen  shone  the  mitre  on  his  brow. 
Where'er  he  trod  a  tremulous  sweet  sound 
Of  gladness  shook  the  flovv'ry  scene  around. 
Attendant  angels  clap  their  starry  wings, 
The  trumpet  shakes  the  sky,  all  aether  rings, 
Each  chaunts  his  welcome,  folds  him  to  his  breast, 
And  thus  a  sweeter  voice  than  all  the  rest: 
"Ascend,  my  son  !  thy  father's  kingdom  share! 
My  son  !  henceforth  be  freed  from  ev'ry  care!" 


387 

So  spake  the  voice,  and  at  its  tender  close 
With  poultry's  sound  th*  anueiic  band  arose, 
Then  night  retired,  and  chased  by  dawning  day 
The  visionary  bliss  pass'd  all  away. 
I  mourn'd  my  banish'd  sleep,  with  fond  concern; 
Frequent  to  me  may  dreams  like  this  return  ! 


ELEGY  IV. 

TO    HIS    TUTOR,    THOS.    YOUNG,    CHAPLAIN    TO   THE    ENGLI3B 
FACTORY    AT    HAMBURGH. 

Written  in  the  Author's  18th  year. 

Hence  my  epistle — skim  the  deep — fly  o'er 
Yon  smooth  expanse  to  the  Teutonic  shore  ! 
Haste — lest  a  friend  should  grieve  for  thy  delay — 
And  the  gods  grant,  that  nothing  thwart  thy  way  I 
I  will  myself  invoke  the  king,  who  binds, 
In  his  Sicanian  echoing  vault,  the  winds, 
"With  Doris  and  her  nymphs,  and  all  the  throng 
Of  azure  gods,  to  speed  tnee  safe  along. 
But  rather  to  ensure  thy  happier  haste, 
Ascend  Medea's  chariot  if  tiiou  may'st  : 
Or  that,  whence  young  Triptolemus  of  yore 
Descended,  welcome  on  the  Scythian  shore. 
The  sands,  that  line  the  German  coast,  descried, 
To  opulent  Humburga  turn  aside! 
So  called,  if  legendary  fame  be  true, 
From  Kama  whom  a  club-arm'd  Cymbrian  slew  1 
Their  lives,  deep-learn'd  and  primitively  jusc, 
A  faithful  stewaid  of  his  Christian  trust, 
My  friend,  and  favorite  inmate  of  my  heart, 
That  now  is  forced  to  want  its  better  part ! 
\Vhat  mountains  now.  and  seas,  alas!   how  widel 
From  me  this  other,  dearer  self  divide, 
Dear,  as  the  sage  renown'd  for  moral  truth 
To  the  prime  spirit  of  the  Attic  youth  ! 
Dear,  as  the  Stagyrite  to  Ammon's  son, 
His  pupil,  who  disdain'd  the  world  he  won 
!Nor  so  did  Chiron,  or  so  Phoenix  shine 
In  young  Achilles'  eyes  as  he  in  mine. 
First  led  by  him  thro'  sweet  Aonian  shade, 
Each  sacred  haunt  of  Pindus  I  survevV. 


388 

And  favor'd  by  the  muse,  whom  I  h.iplored, 
Tlince  o-n  my  lip  the  hallow'd  stream  1  pourd 
But  thrice  the  sun's  resplendent  chariot  ro'l'd 
To  Aries,  has  new  tinged  his  fleece  with  gold, 
And  Chluris  twice  has  divss'd  the  meadows  gay, 
And  twice  has  summer  parch'd  their  bloom  away, 
Since  last  delighted  on  his  looks  1  hung, 
Or  my  ear  drank  the  music  or  his  tong,  ic: 
Fly,  therefore,  and  surpass  the  tempests  speed  : 
Aware  thyself,  that  there  is  urgent  need  ; 
Him,  entering,  thou  shall  haply  seated  see 
Beside  his  spouse,  his  infants  on  his  knee. 
Or  turning,  page  by  page,  with  studious  look, 
Some  bulky  father,  o;  God's  holy  book. 
Or  minist'ring  (which  is  his  weightiest  care) 
To  Christ's  assembled  flock  their  heavenly  fare, 
Give  him,  whatever  his  employment  be, 
Such  gratulation,  as  he  claims,  from  me! 
And,  with  a  down-cast  eye,  and  carriage  meek, 
Addressing- him,  forget  not  thus  to  speak  : 

"  If  compass'd  round  with  arms  thou  canst  attetd 
To  verse,  verse  greets  tliee  fom  a  distant  friend, 
Long  due,  and  late,  1  left  the  English  sin  re  ; 
But  make  me  welcome  for  that  cause  the  more! 
Such  from  Ulysses,  his  chaste  wile  to  cheer, 
The  slow  epistle  came,  tho'  late,  sincere. 
But  wherefore  this  ?   why  palliate  1  the  deed, 
For  which  the  culprit's  self  could  haruly  plead? 
Self-charged,  and  self-condemned,  his  proper  part 
He  feels  neglected,  with  an  aching  heart? 
But  thou  forgive — delinquents,  who  confess, 
And  pray  forgiveness,  merit  anger  less; 
From  timid  foes  the  lion  turns  away, 
Nor  yawns  upon  or  rends  a  crouching  prey; 
Even  pike-wielding  Thracians  learn  to  spare, 
\Vori  by  soft  influence  of  a  suppliant  prayer; 
And  Heav'n's  dread  thunderbolt  arrested  stands 
By  a  cheap  victim,  and  uplifted  hands. 
Long  had  he  wish'd  to  write,  but  was  withheld, 
And,  writes  at  last,  by  love  alone  con  pell'd  ; 
For  fame,  too  often  true,  when  she  alarms, 
Reports  thy  neighbouring  fields  a  scene  of  arms; 
Thy  city  against  fierce  besiegers  barr'd, 
And  all  the  Saxon  chiefs  for  right  prepared. 
Enyo  wastes  thy  country  wide  around, 
And  saturates  with  blood  the  tainted  ground; 
Mars  rests  contented  in  his  Thrace  no  more, 
But  goads  his  steeds  to  fields  of  German  gore; 
Ike  uvei-vcidaiit  olive  fades  and  dies 


389 

And  Peace,  the  trumpet-hating  goddess,  flies, 
Flies  from  that  earth  winch  justice  long  had  left 
And  leaves  the  world  of  its  last  guard  bereft. 

Thus  horror  girds  thee  round.     Meantime  alone 
Thou  dwell'st,  and  helpless  in  a  soil  unknown  ; 
Poor,  and  receiving  from  a  foreign  hand 
The  aid  denied  thee  in  thy  native  land. 
Oh,  ruthless  country,  and  unfeeling  more 
Than  thy  own  billow-beaten  chalky  shore  ! 
Leav'st  thou  to  foreign  care  the  worthies,  given 
By  Providence,  to  guide  thy  steps  to  heav'n  ? 
His  ministers,  commission'd  to  proclaim 
Eternal  blessings  in  a  Saviour's  name? 
Ah  then  most  worthy,  with  a  soul  unfed, 
In  Stygian  night  to  lie  for  ever  dead! 
So  once  the  venerable  Tishhite  stray'd 
An  exiled  fugitive  from  shade  to  shade, 
When,  flying  Ahab,  and  his  fury  wife, 
In  lone  Arabian  wilds,  he  shelter'd  life; 
So,  from  Philippi,  wander'd  forth  forlorn 
Cicilian  Paul,  with  sounding  scourges  torn; 
And  Christ  himself,  so  left,  and  trod  no  mors, 
The  thankless  Gergesene's  forbidden  shore. 

But  thou  take  courage!  strive  against  despair! 
Quake  not  with  dread,  nor  nourish  anxious  care, 
Grim  war  indeed  on  ev'ry  side  appears, 
And  thou  art  menaced  by  a  thousand  spears; 
Yet  none  shall  drink  thy  blood,  or  shall  offend 
E'en  the  defenceless  bosom  of  my  friend. 
For  thee  the  zEgis  of  thy  God  shall  luoe, 
Jehovah's  self  shall  combat  on  thy  side. 
The  same,  who  vanquished  under  Sion's  tow'rs 
At  silent  midnight,  all  Assyria's  pow'rs  ; 
The  same,  who  overthrew  in  ages  past, 
Damascus'  sons  that  laid  Samar.a  waste! 
Their  king  he  till'd  and  them  with  fatal  fears 
By  mimic  sound  of  clarions  in  their  ears, 
Of  hoofs,  and  wheels,  and  neighings  from  afar, 
Of  clashing  armour,  and  the  din  of  war. 

Thou,  therefore  (as  the  most  afflicted  may), 
Still  hope,  and  triumph,  o'er  thy  evil  day  ! 
Look  forth,  expecting  happier  times  to  come 
And  to  enjoy,  once  more,  thy  native  home  1 


2  L  2 


300 


ELEGY  V. 

fN    THE    APPROACH    OP    SPRING. 

Written  in  the  Author's  Twentieth 


*Li*ne,  never  wand'ring  from  his  annua?  r  '.nd, 

Zephyr  breathe  the  spring,  and  tlir  sv  ^.e    ground  \ 
k  winter  flies,  new  verdure  clother  /V  plain, 
earth  assumes  her  transient  you'ji 
Dream  I,  or  also  to  the  spring  belong 
Increase  of  genius,  and  new  pow'r> '  i 
Spring  gives  them,  and,  how  ttrr^e  so'erit  seems, 
Impels  me  now  to  some  Kar^ipui'-d:*  themes. 
Castalia's  fountain,  and  the  OrLeu  hill 
By  day,  by  night,  my  r?  yture  *  fancy  fill ; 
My  bosom  burns  and  he'  /ea,  I  hear  within 
A  sacred  sound,  that  pro?  ,pts  me  to  begin. 
Lo !   Phoebus  comes,  wL/>.  his  bright  hair  he  blends 
The  radiant  laurel-wreaih  ;  Phoebus  descends  ; 
I  mount,  and,  undepress'd  by  cumbrous  clay, 
Through  f  joudy  regions  win  my  easy  way ; 
Rapt  tb.or.gh  poetic  shadowy  haunts  I  fly: 
The  s'^ri^es  all  open  to  my  dauntless  eye. 
My  opirh  searches  all  the  realms  of  light, 
And  no  Tartarean  gulfs  elude  my  sight. 
But  this  ecstatic  trance — this  glorious  storm 
Of  inspiration — what  will  it  perform  ? 
Spring  claims  the  verse,  that  with  his  influence  glows, 
And  shall  be  paid  with  what  himself  bestows. 

Thou,  veil'd  with  op'ning  foliag.e,  lead'st  the  throng 
Of  feather' d  minstrels,  Philomel!  in  song  ; 
Let  us,  in  concert,  to  the  season  sing, 
Civic  and  sylvan  heralds  of  the  spring! 

With  noies  triumphant  spring's  approach  declare; 
To  spring,  ye  Muses,  annual  tribute  bear! 
The  Orient  left,  and  ./Ethiopia's  plains, 
The  Sun  now  northward  turns  his  golden  reins: 
Night  creeps  not  now;  yet  rules  with  gentle  sway; 
And  drives  her  dusky  horrors  swift  away  j 
Now  less  fatigued,  on  this  aethereal  plain 
Bootes  follows  his  celestial  wain  ; 


301 

And  now  the  radiant  sentinels  above, 

Less  nuiu'rous,  Witch  around  tne  courts  of  Jove, 

For  with  the  night,  force,  ambush,  slaughter  fly, 

And  no  gigantic  guilt  alarms  the  sky. 

Now  haply  says  some  shepherd,  while  he  views, 

Recumbent  on  a  rock,  the  redd'ning  dews, 

This  night,  this  surely,  Phoebus  miss'd  the  fair, 

"Who  s;ops  his  chariot  by  her  am'rous  care. 

Cynthia]  delighted  by  the  morning's  glow, 

Speeds  to  the  woodland,  and  resumes  lier  bow  ; 

Resigns  her  beams,  and,  glad  to  disappear, 

BL-sses  his  aid,  who  shortens  her  career. 

Come— Pluebus  cries — Aurora  come — too  late 

Thou  ling'rest,  si  urn  b  ring,  with  thy  wither'd  mate  I 

Leave  him,  and  to  Uymettus'  top  repair! 

Thy  darling  CepUalus  expects  thee  there. 

The  goadess,  with  a  blush,  her  love  betrays, 

But  mounts,  and  driving  rapidly,  obeys. 

Earth  now  desires  thee,  Phosbus  !  and  t'engage 

Thy  warm  embrace  casts  oft' the  guise  of  age  ; 

Desires  thee,  and  deserves ;  for  who  so  sweet, 

When  her  rich  bosom  courts  thy  genial  heat? 

Her  breath  imparts  to  ev'ry  breeze  that  blows 

Arabia's  harvest,  and  the  Paphian  rose. 

Her  lofty  front  she  diadems  around 

With  sacred  pines,  like  Ops  on  Ida  crown' d ; 

His  dewy  'ocks,  with  various  flow'rs  new-blown, 

She  interweaves,  various,  an<i  all  her  own, 

For  Proserpine,  in  such  a  wreath  attired, 

Taenarian  Disjiimself  with  love  inspired. 

Fear  not,  iest,  cold  and  coy,  the  nymph  refuse 

Herself,  with  all  her  sighing  Zephyrs,  sues; 

Each  courts  thee,  fanning  soft  his  scented  wing, 

And  all  her  groves  with  warbled  wishes  ring, 

Nor,  unendow'd  and  indigent,  aspires 

The  am'rous  Earth  t'  engaga  thy  warm  desires. 

But,  rich  in  balmy  drugs,  assists  thy  claim, 

Divine  Physician  !   to  that  glorious  name. 

It  splendid  recompense,  if  gifts  can  move 

Desire  in  thee  (gifts  often  purchase  love), 

She  offers  all  the  wealth  her  mountains  hide, 

And  all  that  rests  beneath  the  boundless  tide. 

How  oft,  when  headlong  from  the  heav'nly  steep, 

She  sees  thee  playing  in  the  western  deep, 

How  oft  she  cries — "Ah  Phoebus!  why  repair 

Thy  wasted  force,  why  seek  refreshment  there  ? 

Can  Thetis  win  thee?  wherefore  shouldst  thou  lav* 

A  face  so  fair  in  her  unpleasant  wave  ? 

Come,  seek  my  green  retreats,  and  rather  chooM 


392 

To  cool  thy  tresses  in  my  crystal  dews, 

The  grassy  turf  shall  yield  thee  sweeter  rest 

Come,  lay'*hy  ev'ning  glories  on  my  breast, 

And  breathing  fresh,  through  many  a  humid  rose, 

Soft  whispering  airs  shall  lull  thee  to  repose  ! 

No  fears  1  feel,  like  Semele,  to  die, 

Nor  let  thy  burning  wheels  approach  too  nigh, 

For  tliou  canst  govern  them — here  therefore  rest, 

And  lay  thy  ev'ning  glories  on  my  breast  I" 

Thus  breathes  the  wanton  Earth  her  am'rous  flame 
And  all  her  countless  offspring  feel  the  same 
For  Cupid  now  through  every  region  strays, 
Briglu'ning  his  faded  fires  with  solar  rays: 
His°iiew-strung  bow  sends  tbrth  a  deadlier  sound, 
And  his  new -pointed  shafts  more  deeply  wound  ; 
Nor  Dian's  self  escapes  mm  now  untried, 
Nor  even  Vesta  at  her  altar-side  ; 
His  mother  too  repairs  her  beauty's  wane, 
And  seems  sprung  newly  from  the  deep  again. 
Exulting  youths  the  Hymeneal  sing, 
With  Hymen's  name  roofs,  rocks,  and  valleys  ring 
He,  new-attired,  and  by  the  season  drest, 
Proceeds,  all  fragrant,  in  his  saffron  vest. 
Now,  many  a  golden-cinctured  virgin  roves 
To  taste  the  pleasures  of  the  fields  and  groves; 
AH  wish,  and  each  alike;  some  fav'rite  youth 
Hers,  in  the  bonds  of  Hymeneal  truth. 
Now  pipes  the  shepherd  through  his  reeds  again, 
Nor  Phillis  wants  a  song,  that  suits  the  strain  ; 
With  songs  the  seaman  hails  thv  starry  sphere, 
And  dolphins  rise  fioin  the  abyss  to  hear  1 
Jove  feels  himself  the  season,  sports  again 
With  his  fair  spouse,  and  :  anquets  all  his  train 
Now  too  the  Satyrs,  in  the  dusk  of  eve, 
Their  mazy  dance  through  How'ry  meadows  weave; 
And  neither  god  nor  goat,  but  both  in  kind, 
Sylvanus,  wreath'd  with  cypress,  skips  behind. 
The  Dryads  leave  their  hollow  sylvan  cells, 
To  roam  the  banks  and  solitary  dells  ; 
Pan  riots  now  ;  and  from  his  am'rous  chafe 
Geres  and  Cylx  le  seem  hardly  safe. 
And  Faunns,  all  on  fire  to  reach  the  prize, 
In  chase  of  some  enticing  Oread  flies  ; 
She  bounds  before,  but  fears  too  swift  a  bound 
And  hidden  lies,  but  wishes  to  be  found. 
Our  shades  entice  th' Immortals  from  above, 
And  some  kind  power  presides  o'er  ev'ry  grovel 
And  long,  ye  pow'rs,  o'er  ev'ry  grove  preside, 
For  all  is  safe,  and  blest,  where  ye  abide  1 


Upturn.  O  Jove  !   the  age  of  gold  restore— 

\Vliv  choose  to  dwell  where  storms  and  thunders  roar  I 

At  least  thou,  Phoebus  !   moderate  thy  speed  I 

Let  not  the  vernal  hours  too  swift  proceed, 

Command  rough  Winter  back,  nor  yield  the  pole 

Too  soon  to  Night's  encroaching  long  control ! 


ELEGY  VI. 


TO    CHARLES   DEODAT1. 


c  while  he  spent  his  Christmas  in  the  country,  sent  theAuthor  a  poeti- 
cal Epistle,  in  which  he  requested  that  his  verses,  if  not  so  good  as  u-sua  i, 
mi  'lit  be  excused  on  account  of  the  many  feasts  to  whicn  his  friends 
invited  him,  and  which  would  not  allow  him  leisure  to  huish  them  as 
he  wished. 

With  no  rich  viands  overcharged,  I  send      [friend  ; 
Health,  which  perchance  you  want,  my  pan, per' d 
But  wherefore  should  thy  muse  tempt  mine  away 
From  what  she  loves,  from  d;  rkness  into  day  ? 
Art  thou  desirous  to  be  told  how  well 
I  love  thee,  and  in  verse?  verse  cannot  tell. 
For  verse  has  bounds,  and  must  in  measure  move; 
But  neither  bounds  nor  measure  knows  my  love. 
How  pleasant,  in  thy  lines  described,  appear 
December's  harmless  spoils,  and  rural  cheer  1 
French  spirits  kindling  with  caerulean  fires, 
And  all  such  gambols,  as  the  time  inspires !_ 

Think  not  that  wine  against  good  verse  offends; 
The  muse  and  Bacchus  have  been  always  friends, 
Nor  Phoebus  blushes  sometimes  to  be  found 
With  ivy,  rather  than  with  laurel  crown' d. 
The  Nine  themselves  oft-times  have  join'd  the  song, 
And  revels  of  the  Bacchanalian  throng  ; 
Not  even  Ovid  could  in  Scythian  air 
Sin°-  sweetly — why  ?  no  vine  would  flourish  there. 
What  in  brief  numbers  sung  Anacreon's  muse? 
Wine,  and  the  rose,  that  sparkling  wine  bedews. 


394 

Pindar  with  Bacchus  glows— his  ev?ry  line 

Breathes  the  rich  fragrance  of  inspiring  wine,  ^ 
While,  with  loud  crash  o'erturn'd  the  chariot  lies 
And  brown  with  dust  the  fiery  courser  Hies. 
The  Roman  lyrist  steep'd  in  wine  his  lays 
So  sweet  in  Glycera's,  and  Chloe's  praise. 
Now  too  the  plenteous  feast  and  mantling  bowl 
Nourish  the  vigour  of  thy  sprightly  soul ; 
The  flowing  goblet  makes  thy  numbers  flow, 
And  casks  not  wine  alone,  but  verse,  bestow. 
Thus  Phoebus  favors,  and  the  arts  attend, 
Whom  Bacchus,  and  whom  Ceres,  both  befriend. 
What  wonder  then  thy  verses  are  so  sweet, 
In  which  these  triple  powers  so  kinuly  meet! 
The  lute  now  also  sounds,  with  gold  in-wrought, 
And  touch 'd  with  flying  fingers  nicely  taught, 
In  tap'stried  halls,  high  roof'd,  the  sprightly  lyre 
Directs  the  dancers  of  the  virgin  choir. 
If  dull  repletion  fright  the  Muse  away, 
Sights,  gay  as  these,  may  more  invite  her  stay ; 
And  trust  me,  while  the  iv'ry  keys  resound, 
Fair  damsels  sport,  and  perfumes  steam  around, 
Apollo's  influence,  like  sethereal  flame, 
Shall  animate  at  once  thy  glowing  flame, 
And  all  the  Muse  shall  rush  into  thy  breast, 
By  love  and  music's  blended  pow'rs  possest. 
For  num'rous  pow'rs  light  Elegy  befriend, 
Hear  her  sweet  voice,  and  at  her  call  attend; 
Her,  Bacchus,  Ceres,  Venus,  all  approve, 
And  with  his  blushing  mother  gentle  Love. 
Hence  to  such  bards  we  grant  the  copious  use 
Of  banquets,  and  the  vine's  delicious  juice. 
But  they,  who  demi-gods  and  heroes  praise, 
And  feats  perforrn'd  in  Jove's  more  youthful  days, 
Who  now  the  counsels  of  high  heav'n  explore, 
Now  shades,  that  echo  the  Cerberean  roar, 
Simply  let  these,  like  him  of  Samos  live, 
Let  herbs  to  them  a  bloodLss  banquet  give; 
In  beechen  goblets  let  their  bev'rage  shine, 
Cool  from  the  crystal  spring,  their  sober  wine! 
Their  youth  should  pass,  in  innocence,  secure 
From  stain  licentious,  arid  in  manners  pure, 
Pure  as  the  priest,  when  robed  i:i  white  he  stands, 
The  fresh  lustration  ready  in  his  hands. 
Thus  Linus  lived,  and  thus,  as  poets  write, 
Tiresias,  wiser  for  his  loss  of  sight ! 
Thus  exiled  Chalcas,  thus  the  bard  of  Thrace, 
Melodious  tamer  of  the  savage  race  ! 
Thus  train'd  by  temp'rance,  Homer  led,  of  yora. 


395 

His  chief  of  Ithaca  from  shorp  to  shore, 

Through  magic  Circe's  monster-peopled  reign, 

And  shoals  insidious  with  the  siren  train  ; 

And  through  the  realms,  where  grizly  spectres  dwell, 

Whose  tribes  he  fetter' d  in  a  gory  spell  ; 

For  these  are  sacred  bards,  and,  from  above, 

Drink  large  infusions  from  the  mind  of  Jove! 

W-.iuld'st  thou  (perhaps  'tis  hardly  worth  thine  (  fil)f 
Would'st  thou  be  told  my  occupation  here? 
The  promised  King  of  peace  employs  my  pen, 
Til'  eternal  eov'n  mt  made  for  guilty  men, 
T^e  new-born  Deity  with  infant  cries 
Filling  the  sordid  hovel  where  he  lies  ; 
The  hymning  angels,  and  the  herald  star, 
That  led  the  wise,  who  sought  him  from  afar, 
And  idols  on  their  own  unallow'd  shore 
Dash'd,  at  his  birth,  to  be  revered  no  more  ! 

This  theme  on  reeds  of  Albion  I  n  hearse: 
The  dawn  of  that  blest  day  inspired  the  verse  ; 
Verse,  that,  reserved  in  secret,  shall  attend 
Thy  candid  voice,  my  critic,  and  my  friend  I 


ELEGY  VII. 

Composed  in  the  Author's  19th  year. 

As  yet  a  stranger  to  the  gentle  fires, 
That  Amathusia's  smiling  queen  inspires, 
Not  seldom  1  derided  Cupid's  darts, 
And  scorn'd  his  claim  to  rule  all  human  hearts. 
"  Go,  child,"  1  said,  "  transfix  the  tim'rous  dove  ! 
An  easy  conquest  suits  an  infant  love; 
Enslave  the  sparrow,  for  such  prize  shall  be 
Sufficient  triumph  to  a  chief  like  thee  ! 
Why  aim  thy  idle  arms  at  human  kind  ? 
Thy  shafts  prevail  not  'gainst  the  noble  mind." 

The  Cyprian  heard,  and  kindling  into  ire 
(None  kindles  sooner),  burn'd  with  double  fire. 
It  was  the  spring,  and  newly  risen  day 
Peep'd  o'er  the  hamlets  on  the  first  of  May  ; 
My  eyes  too  tender  for  the  blaze  of  light, 
Still  sought  the  shelter  of  retiring  night, 
When  Love  approach'd  in  painted  plumes  array'd, 
TV  insidious  god  his  rattling  darts  betray'd, 


S96 

Nor  less  his  infant  features,  and  the  sly, 
Sweet  intimations  of  his  threatening  eye. 

Such  the  Sigeian  ooy  is  seen  above, 
Filling  the  goblet  for  imperial  Jove  ; 
Such  he,  on  whom  the  nymphs  bestow'd  their  charms, 
11  y las,  who  perish 'd  in  a  Naiad's  arms. 
Angry  he  seem'd,  yet  graceful  in  his  ire, 
And  added  threats,  not  destitute  offire. 
"My  power,"  he  said,  "by  others'  pain  alone, 
'Tvvere  best  to  learn  ;  now  learn  it  by  thy  Own  ! 
With  those  who  feel  mv  power,  that  pow'r  attest! 
And  in  thy  anguish  be  my  sway  contest  ! 
I  vanquish'd  Phoebus,  though  returning  vain 
From  his  ne*v  triumph  o'er  the  Python  .slain, 
And,  when  he  thinks  on  Daphne,  even  he 
Will  yield  the  prize  of  archery  10  me. 
A  dart  less  true  the  Parthian  horseman  sped. 
Behind  him  killed,  and  conquer'd  as  he  fled: 
Less  true  th'  expert  Cydonian,  and  less  true 
The  youth,  whose  shaft  his  latent  Procris  slew. 
Vanquish'd  by  me,  see  huge  Orion  bend, 
By  me  Alcides,  and  Alcides'  fviend. 
At  me  should  Jove  himself  a  bolt  design, 
His  bosom  first  should  bleed,  transfixt  by  mine. 
But  all  thy  doubts  this  shaft  will  best  explain, 

Nor  shall  it  reach  tbee  with  a  trivial  pain. 

Thy  Mu»e,  vain  youth  !  shall  not  thy  peace  ensure, 

Nor  Phoebus'  serpent  yield  thy  wound  a  cure." 
He  spoke,  and,  waving  a  bright  shaft  in  air, 

Sought  the  warm  bosom  of  the  Cyprian  fair. 
That  thus  a  child  should  bluster  in  my  ear, 

Provoked  my  laughter,  more  than  moved  my  fear. 

I  shunn'd  not,  therefore,  public  haunts,  hut  stray 'd 

Careless  in  city  or  suburban  shade  ; 

And  passing,  and  repassmg,  nymphs,  that  mov'd 

With  grace  divine,  beheld  where'er  1  roved. 

Bright  shone  the  vernal  day  with  double  blaze, 

As  beauty  gave  new  force  to  Phcebus'  rays. 

By  no  grave  scruples  checked,  I   freely  e>ed 

The  dang'rous  show,  rash  youth  my  only  guide, 

And  many  a  look  of  many  a  fair  unknown 

Met  full,  unable  to  control  my  own. 

But  one  I  mark'd  (then  peace  forsook  my  breast) 

One — oh  how  far  superior  to  the  rest  ! 

What  lovely  features!  such  the  Cyprian  queen 

Herself  might  wish,  and  Juno  wish  her  mien. 

The  very  nymph  was  she,  whom  when  I  dared 

His  arrows,  Love  had  even  then  prepared  1 

Nor  was  himself  remote,  nor  misapplied 


897 

With  torch  well  trimm'd,  and  quiver  at  his  side  ; 

Now  to  her  lips  he  clung,  her  eyplids  now, 

Tlien  settled  on  her  cheeks,  or  on  her  brow  ; 

And  with  a  thousand  wounds  from  ev'ry  part, 

Pierced,  and  transpierced,  my  undefended  heart. 

A  fever,  new  to  me,  of  fierce  desjre, 

Now  seized  my  soul,  and  I  was  all  on  fire  ; 

But  she,  the  while,  whom  only  I  adore, 

Was  gone,  and  vanish'd,  to  appear  no  more. 

In  silent  sadness  I  pursue  my  way; 

I  pause,  I  turn,  proceed,  yet  wish  to  stay; 

And  while  I  follow  her  in  thought,  bemoan 

"With  tears,  my  souls  delight  so  quickly  flown. 

When  Jove  had  hmTd  him  to  the  Lemnian  coast, 

So  Vulcan  sorrow'd  for  Olympus  lost  ; 

And  soOeclides,  sinking  into  night, 

From  the  deep  gulf  look'd  up  to  distant  light. 

Wretch  that  I  am,  what  hopes  for  me  remain, 
Who  cannot  cease  to  love,  yet  love  in  vain  ? 
O  could  I  once,  once  more  behold  the  fair, 
Speak  to  her,  tell  he: ,  of  the  pangs  I  bear ; 
Perhaps  she  is  not  adamant,  would  show 
Perhaps  some  pity  at  my  tale  of  woe. 
Oh  inauspicious  flame — 'Hs  mine  to  prove 
A  matchless  instance  of  disastrous  love. 
Ah  spire  me,  gentle  power! — if  such  thou  be, 
Let  not  thy  deeds  and  nature  disagree. 
Spare  me,  and  1  will  worship  at  no  shrine 
With  vow  and  sacrifice,  save  only  thine. 
Now  I  revere  thy  fires,  thy  bow,  thy  darts  ; 
Now  own  thee  sov'reign  of  all  human  hearis. 
Remove!   no — grant  me  still  this  raging  woe! 
Sweet  is  the  wretchedness  that  lovers  know  ; 
But  pierce  hereafter  (should  I  chance  to  see 
One  destin'd  mine)  at  once  both  her  and  me. 

Such  were  the  trophies  that,  in  earlier  days, 
By  vanity  seduc'd,    I  toil'd  to  raise; 
Studious,  yet  indolent,  and  urg'd  by  youth, 
That  worst  of  teachers !  from  the  ways  of  truth  { 
Till  Learning  taught  me,  in  Lis  shady  bower, 
To  quit  Love's  servile  yoke,  and  spurn  his  power. 
Then,  on  a  sudden,  the  fierce  flame  suppiest, 
A  frost  continual  settled  on  my  breast, 
Whence  Cupid  fears  his  flames  extinct  to  see, 
And  Venus  dreads  a  Diomede  in  me. 


EPIGRAMS. 


ON    THE    INVENTOR    OP    GUNS. 

Praise  in  old  times  the  sage  Prometheus  won, 
Who  stole  aetherial  radiance  from  the  sun  ; 
But  greater  he,  whose  bold  invention  strove 
To  emulate  the  fiery  bolts  of  Jove. 

fThe  Poems  on  the  subject  of  the  Gunpowder  Treason  I  have  not 
translated,  both  because  the  matter  of  them  is  unpleasant,  and  because 
tiity  are  written  with  an  asperity,   which,  however  it  might  be  warranted 
in  Milton's  day,  would  be  extremely  unseasonable  now.] 


TO    LEONORA    SINGING    AT    ROME.  * 

Another  Leonora  once  inspired 
Tasso,  with  fatal  love  to  frenzy  fired  ; 
But  how  much  happier  lived  he  now,  were  he 
Pierced  with  whatever  pangs  for  love  of  thee  ! 
Since,  could  he  hear  that  heavenly  voice  of  thine, 
With  Adriana's  lurp  of  sound  divine, 
Fiercer  than  Pentneus'  though  his  eye  might  roll, 
Or  idiot  apathy  benumb  his  soul, 
You  still,  with  medicinal  sounds  might  cheer 
His  senses,  wand'ring  in  a  blind  career; 
And  sweetly  breathing  through  his  wounded  breaa 
Charm,  with  soul-soothing  song,  his  thoughts  to  real. 

*  I  have  translated  only  two  of  the  three  poetical  compliments  address- 
ed to  Leonora,  as  they  appear  to  me  far  superior  to  what  1  have 
omitted. 


399 


TO    THE    SAME. 

Naples,  too  credulous,  ah  !  boast  no  more 
The  sweet-voiced  Syren  buried  on  thy  shore, 
That,  when  Parthenope  deceased,  she  gave 
Her  sacred  dust  to  a  Chalcidic  grave  ; 
For  still  she  lives,  but  has  exchanged  the  hoarse 
Pausilipo  for  Tiber's  placid  course, 
"Where,  idol  of  all  Rome  she  now  in  chains 
Of  magic  song  both  gods  and  men  detains. 


THE    COTTAGER    AND    HIS    LANDLORD. 
A  FABLE. 

A  peasant  to  his  lord  paid  yearly  court, 
Presenting  pippins  of  so  rich  a  sort, 
That  he,  displeased  to  have  a  part  alone, 
Removed  the  tree,  that  all  might  be  his  own. 
The  tree,  too  old  to  travel,  though  before 
£o  fruitful,  wither'd,  and  would  yield  no  more. 
The  squire,  perceiving  all  his  labour 'void, 
"Cursed  his  own  pains  so  foolishly  envploy'd; 
And  "Oh,"  he  cried,  "that  I  had  lived  content 
With  tribute,  small  indeed,  but  kindly  meant! 
My  avarice  has  expensive  prov'd  to  me, 
Has  cost  me  both  my  pippins  and  my  tree." 


fO  CHRISTINA    QUEEN  OF  SWEDEN,  WITH  CROMWELL  S 

PICTURE. 

Christina,  maiden  of  heroic  mien, 
Star  of  the  North  !   of  northern  stars  the  queen! 
Behold  what  wrinkles  I  have  e  rn'd,  and  how 
The  iron  casque  still  chafes  my  vet'ran  brow, 


400 

While  following  fate's  dark  footsteps,  I  fulfil 
The  dictates  of  a  hardy  people's  will. 
But  sot'ten'd,  in  thy  sight,  my  looks  appear 
to  all  Queens  or  Kings  alike  sevtre. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ON  THE    DEATH  OF  THE     VICE-CHANCELLOR, 

A  PHYSICIAN. 

_ 

Lparn,  ye  nations  of  the  earth, 
The  condition  of  your  birth, 
Now  be  taught  your  feeble  state  I 
Know,  that  all  must  yield  to  fate  1 

If  the  mournful  rover,  Death, 

Say  but  once — "  Resign  your  breath!" 

Vainly  of  escape  you  dream, 

You  must  pass  the  Stygian  stream. 

Could  the  stoutest  overcome 
Death's  assault,  and  baffle  doom, 
Hercules  had  both  withstood, 
Undiseas'd  by  Nessus'  blood. 

Ne'er  had  Hector  press'd  the  plain 
By  a  trick  of  Pallas  slain, 
Nor  the  chief  to  Jove  allied 
By  Achilles'  phantom  died. 

Could  enchantments  life  prolong, 
Circe  saved  by  magic  song, 
Still  had  lived,  and  equal  skill 
Had  preserved  Medea  still. 

Dwelt  in  herbs  and  drugs  a  pow'r 
To  avert  man's  destined  hour, 
Learn' d  Machaoii  should  have  known 
Doubtless  to  avert  his  own. 


401 

Chiron  had  survived  the  smart 

Of  the  Hydra-tainted  dart, 

And  Jove's  bolt  had  been,  with  ease, 

Foii'd  by  Asclepiades. 

Thou  too,  sage  !   of  whom  forlorn 
Helicon  and  Cirrha  mourn, 
Still  hadst  till'd  thy  princely  place, 
Regent  of  the  gowned  race  ; 

Hadst  advanced  to  higher  fame 
Still  thy  much  ennobled  name, 
Nor  in  Charon's  skiff  explored 
The  tartarean  gulf  abhorr'd. 

But  resentful  Proserpine, 
Jealous  of  thy  skill  divine, 
Snapping  short  thy  vital  thread, 
Thee  too  number' d  with  the  dead.j 

Wise  and  good !  untroubled  be 
The  green  turf  that  covers  theel 
Thence,  in  gay  profusion  groir 
All  the  sweetest  flow'rs  that  blow. 

Pluto's  consort  bid  thee  rest ! 
^Eacus  pronounce  thee  blest! 
To  her  home  thy  shade  consign! 
Make  Elysium  ever  thine ! 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    BISHOP    OF    ELYi 
Written  in  the  Author's  \1th  year. 

Vylids  with  grief  were  tumid  yet 
And  still  my  sullied  cheek  was  wet 
With  briny  tears,  profusely  shed 
For  venerable  Win  ton  dead  ; 
When  Fame,  whose  tales  of  saddest  sound, 
Alas!  are  ever  truest  found, 
The  news  through  all  our  cities  spread 
Of  yet  another  mitred  head 
By  ruthless  fate  to  death  consign'd, 
Ely  1  the  honor  of  his  kindl 
2  M  2 


At  once,  a  storm  of  passion  heaved 
My  boiling  bosom,  much   I  grieved, 
But  more  I  raged,  at  ev'ry  breath 
Devoting  Death  himself  to  death. 
With  Irss  revenge  did  Naso  teem, 
When  hated  Ibis  was  his  theme; 
With  less,  Archilochus,  denied 
The  lovely  Greek,  his  promised  bride. 

But  It)!  while  thus  I  execrate, 
Incensed,  the  minister  of  fate, 
Wondrous  accents,  soft,  yet  clear, 
Wafted  on  the  gale  I  hear. 

"  Ah,  much  deluded  !   lay  aside 
Thy  threats  and  anger  misapplied  ! 
Art  not  af  aid  witli  sound  like  these 
T'off'n  1,  where  thou  ca^ist  not  appease? 
Death  is  not  (wherefore  dream'st  thou  thus?) 
The  son  of  Night  and  Eiebns  ; 
Nor  was  of  fell  Erynnis  horn 
On  gulfs,  where  Chaos  rules  forlorn: 
Bat,  sent  from  God,  his  presence  leaves 
To  gather  home  his  ripen'd  sheaves, 
To  call  encumber'd  souls  away 
From  fle.shly  bonds  to  boundless  day, 
(As  when  the  winged  hours  excite. 
And  summon  forth  the  morning-light) 
Ami  each  to  convoy  to  her  place 
Before  th'  Eternal  Father's  face. 
But  not  the  wicked — them,  severe 
Yet  just,  from  all  their  pleasures  here 
He  hurries  to  the  realms  below, 
Terrific  realms  of  penal  woe! 
Myself  no  sooner  heard  his  call, 
Than,  'scaping  through  my  prison-wall, 
I  hade  adieu  to  bolts  and  bars, 
And  soar'd,  with  angels,  to  the  stars, 
Lil*  him  of  old,  to  whom  'twas  giv'n 
To  Tiount,  on  fiery  whee's  to  heav'n. 
Booths'  waggon,  slow  with  rold, 
Appall'd  me  not;  nor  to  behuld 
The  sword,  that  vast  Orion  draws, 
Or  e'en  the  Scorpion's  horrid  claws. 
Beyond  the  Sun's  bright  orb  I  Hy, 
And,  far  beneath  my  teet  descry 
Night's  dread  goddess,  seen  with  awe, 
Whom  her  winged  dragons  ilraw. 
Thus  ever  wond'ring  at  my  speed, 
Augmented  still  as  I  proceed, 
I  pass  the  planetary  sphere. 


403 

The  milky  Way — and  now  appear 
Heav'n's  crystal  battlements,  her  door 
Of  mas<y  pearl  and  em 'raid  floor. 

"  But  here  I  cease.     For  never  can 
The  tongue  of  once  a  moital  man 
In  suitabb  description  trace 
The  pleasures  of  that  happy  place  ; 
Suffice  it,  that  those  joys  divine 
Are  all,  and  all  tor  ever,  mine  I" 


NATURE    UNIMPAIRED    BY    TIME. 

Ah,  how  the  hum-in  mind  wearies  itself 
With  her  own  wand'rings,  and  involved  in  gloom 
Impenetrable,  speculates  amiss  ! 
Measuring,  in  her  folly,  things  divine 
By  human  ;   laws  inscribed  on  adamant 
By  laws  of  man's  device,  and  counsels  fix'd 
For  ever,  by  the  hours,  that  pass  and  die. 

How? — shall  the  face  of  nature  then  be  plough'd 
Into  deep  wrinkles,  and  shall  years  at  last 
On  the  great  Parent  fix  a  stei  ile  curse? 
Shall  even  she  confess  old  age  and  halt, 
And,  palsy-smitten,  shake  her  starry  brows? 
Shall  foal  Antiquity  with  rust  and  dro  :ght, 
And  Fam'rie,  vex  the  radiant  worlds  above  ? 
Shall  Time's  unsated  maw  crave  and  ingulf 
The  very  heav'ns,  that  regulate  his  flight? 
And  was  the  Sire  of  all  able  to  fence 
His  works,  and  to  uphold  the  circli-ig  worlds, 
But,  through  improvident  and  heedless  haste, 
Let  slip  th'occasion  '?-—  so  then — all  is  lost — 
And  in  some  future  evil  hour,  yon  arch 
Sliall  crumble,  and  co:ne  thun Tring  down  t!ie  poles 
Jar  in  collision,  the  Olympian  king 
Frill  with  his  throne,  .ml  Pallas,  holding  forth 
The  terrors  of  the  Gorgon  shit-Id  in  vain, 
Shall  rush  to  the  abyss  like  Vulcan  hurl'd 
Dov\  n  into  Lemnos,  through  the  gate  of  heav'n. 
Thou  also,  with  precipitated  wheels, 
Phoebus!   thine  own  son's  f.ill  shah  imitate, 
With  hideous  ruin  shall  impress  the  deep 
Suddenly,  and  the  iJood  shall  reek,  and  hiss, 


404 

At  the  extinction  of  the  lamp  of  day. 
Then  too  shall  Hemus,  cloven  to  his  base, 
Be  shatter'd,  and  the  huge  Ceraunian  hills, 
Once  weapons  of  Tartarean  Dis,  immersed 
In  Erebus,  shall  fill  himself  with  fear. 

No.     The  Almighty  Father  surer  laid 
His  deep  foundations,  and  providing  well 
For  the  event  of  all,  the  scales  of  Fate 
Suspended  in  just  equipoise,  and  bade 
His  universal  works,  from  age  to  age, 
One  tenor  hold,  perpetual,  undisturb'd. 

Hence  the  prime  mover  wheels  itself  about 
Continual,  day  by  day,  and  with  it  bears 
In  social  measure  swift  the  heav'ns  around. 
Not  tardier  now  is  Saturn  than  of  eld, 
Nor  radiant  less  the  burning  casque  of  Mars. 
Phosbus,  his  vigor  unimpair'd  still  shows 
Th'effulgence  of  his  youth,  nor  needs  the  god 
A  downward  course,  tha-t  he  may  warm  the  vales, 
But,  ever  rich  in  influence,  runs  his  road, 
Sign  after  sign,  through  all  the  heav'nly  zone. 
Beautiful,  as  at  first,  ascends  the  star 
For  odorif 'rous  hid,  whose  office  is 
To  gather  home  betimes  th'ethereal  flock, 
To  pour  them  o'er  the  skies  again  at  eve, 
And  to  discriminate  the  night  and  day 
Still  Cynthia's  changeful  horn  waxes,  and  wanes, 
Alternate,  and  with  arms  extended  still, 
She  welcomes  to  her  breast  her  brother's  beams. 
Nor  have  the  elements  deserted  yet 
Their  functions  ;    thunder,  with  as  loud  a  stroke 
As  erst,  smites  thro'  the  rocks,  and  scatters  them. 
The  east  still  howls,  still  the  relentless  north 
Invades  the  shudd'ring  Scythian,  still  he  breathe* 
The  winter,  and  still  rolls  the  storms  along. 
The  king  of  ocean,  with  his  wonted  force 
Beats  on  Pelorus,  o'er  the  deep  is  heard 
The  hoarse  alarm  of  Triton's  sounding  shell, 
Nor  swim  the  monsters  of  the  JEgean  sea 
In  shallows,  or  beneath  dirninish'd  waves. 
Thou  too,  thy  ancient  vegetative  pow'r 
Enjoy'st,  O  earth  !   Narcissus  still  is  sweet, 
And,  Phoebus !   still  thy  favorite,  and  still 
Thy  fav'rite  Cytherea !  both  retain 
Their  beauty,  nor  the  mountains,  ore-enr:ch'd 
For  punishment  of  man,  with  purer  gold 
Teem'd  ever,  or  with  brighter  gems  the  Deep. 

Thus,  in  unbroken  series,  all  proceeds, 
And  shall,  till  wide  involving  either  pole, 


And  the  immensity  of  yonder  heav'n, 

The  final  rlauies  of  destiny  absorb 

The  world,  consumed  in  one  enormous  pyre  1 


ON  THE  PLATONIC  IDEA. 

AS    IT    WAS    UNDERSTOOD    BY    ARISTOTLE. 

Ye  sister  pow'rs  who  o'er  the  sacred  grove 
Preside,  and  thou,  fair  mother  of  them  all, 
Mnemosyne!  and  thou,  who  in  thy  grot 
Immense,  reclined  at  leisure,  hast  in  charge 
The  archives,  and  the  ord'nances  of  Jove, 
And  dost  record  the  festivals  of  heav'n, 
Eternity! — Inform  us  who  is  He, 
That  great  origin*!  hy  nature  chos'n 
To  be  the  archetype  of  human  kind, 
Unchangeable,  immortal,  with  the  poles 
Themselves  coeval,  one,  yet  ev'ry  where, 
An  image  of  the  god  who  gave  him  being? 
Twin-brother  of  the  goddess  born  from  Jove. 
He  dwells  not  in  Ins  father's  mind,  but  though 
Of  common  nature  with  ourselves,  exists 
Apart,  and  occupies  a  local  home. 
\Vhether,  companion  of  the  stars,  he  spend 
Eternal  ages,  roaming  at  his  will 
From  sphere  to  sphere  the  tenfold  heav'ns,  or  dwell 
On  the  moon's  side,  that  nearest  neighbours  earth, 
Or  torpid  on  the  banks  of  Lethe  sit 
Among  the  multitude  of  souls  ordain'd 
To  flesh  and  blood,  or  whether  (as  may  chance) 
That  vast  and  giant  model  of  our  kind 
In  some  far  distant  region  of  this  globe 
Seijuester'd  stalk,  with  lifted  head  on  high 
O'ertow'ring  Atlas,  on  whose  shoulders  rest 
The  stars,  terrific  even  to  the  gods. 
Never  the  Theban  seer,  whose  blindness  proved 
His  best  illumination,  him  beheld 
In  secret  vision  ;  never  him  the  son 
Of  Pleione,  amid  the  noiseless  night 
Descending,  to  the  prophet-choir  reveal'd  : 
Him  never  knew  th' Assyrian  priest,  who  yet 
The  ancestry  of  Ninus  chronicles, 


406 

And  Belus,  and  Osiris,  far  renown'd  ; 

Nor  even  thrice  great  Hermes,  although  skill'd 

So  deep  in  myst'ry  to  the  worshippers 

Of  Isis  show'd  a  prodigy  like  him. 

And  thou,  who  hast  immortalized  the  shades 
Of  Academus,  if  the  schools  received 
This  monster  of  the  fancy  first  from  thee, 
Either  recall  at  once  the  banish'd  bards 
To  thy  republic,  or  thyself  evinced 
A  wilder  fabulist,  go  also  forth. 


TO    HIS    FATHER. 

Oh  that  Pieria's  spring  would  through  my  breast 
Pour  its  inspiring  intiuence,  and  rush 
No  rill,  but  rather  an  o'ei  flowing  Hood  ! 
That,  for  my  venerable  Father's  sake, 
All  meaner  themes  renounced,  my  muse,  on  wings 
Of  duty  borne,  might  reach  a  loftier  strain. 
For  thee,  my  Father!  howsoe'er  it  please, 
She  frames  this  slender  work,  nor  know  I  aught 
That  may  thy  gifts  more  suitably  requite; 
Though,  to  requite  them  suitably,  would  ask 
Returns  much  nobler,  and  surpassing  far 
The  meagre  stores  of  verbal  gratitude : 
But,  such  as  I  possess,  1  send  thee  all. 
This  page  presents  thee,  in  their  full  amount, 
\Vith  thy  son's  treasures,  and  the  sum  is  nought; 
Nought,  save  the  riches  that  from  airy  dream 
In  secret  grottos,  and  in  laurel  bow'rs, 
I  have,  by  Clio's  golden  gift,  acquired. 

Verse  is  a  work  divine ;  despise  not  thou 
Verse,  therefore,  which  evinces  (nothing  more) 
Man's  heavenly  source,  and  which,  retaining  still 
Some  scintillations  of  Promethean  fire, 
Bespeaks  him  animated  from  above. 
The  Gods  love  verse  ;  the  infernal  Pow'rs  themselves 
Confess  the  influence  of  verse,  which  stirs 
The  lowest  deep,  and  binds  in  triple  -bains 
Of  adamazit  both  Pluto  and  the  Shades. 
In  verse  the  Delphic  priestess,  and  the  pale 
Tremulous  Sybil,  make  the  future  known, 
And  he  who  sacrifices,  on  the  shrine 


40? 

Hangs  verse,  both  when  he  smites  the  thre.it'ning 
And  when  he  spreads  his  reeking  ent-rails  wide, 
To  scrutinize  the  Fates  enveloped  there. 
We  too,  ourselves,  what  time  we  seek  again 
Our  native  skies,  and  one  eternal  now 
Shall  be  the  only  measure  of  our  being, 
Crown'd  all  with  gold,  and  chanting  to  the  lyre 
Harmonious  verse,  shall  range  the  courts  above, 
And  make  the  starry  firnnment  resound. 
And,  even  now,  the  fiery  spirit  pure 
That  wheels  yon  circling  orbs,  directs,  himself, 
Their  mazy  dance  with  melody  of  verse 
Unutt'rahle,  immortal,  hearing  which 
Huge  Ophiuchus  holds  his  hiss  suppress'd, 
Orion  soften'd,  drops  his  ardent  blade, 
And  Atlas  stands  unconscious  of  his  load. 
Verse  graced  of  old  the  feasts  of  kings,  ere  yet 
Luxurious  dainties,  destined  fo  ihe  gulf 
Immense  of  gluttony,  were  known,  and  ere 
Lyaeus  deluged  yet  the  temperate  board. 
Then  sat  the  bard  a  customary  guest 
To  share  the  banquet,  and,  his  length  of  locks 
With  becchen  honors  bound,  proposed  in  verse 
The  characters  of  heroes,  and  their  deeds, 
To  imitation,  sang  of  Chaos  old, 
Of  nature's  birth,  of  gods  that  crept  in  search 
Of  acorns  fall'n,  and  of  the  thunderbolt 
Not  yet  produced  from  ^Etna's  fiery  cave. 
And  what  avails,  at  last,  tune  without  voice, 
Devoid  of  matter?   Such  may  suit  perhaps 
The  rural  dance  ;  but  such  was  ne'er  the  song 
Of  Orpheus,  whom  the  streams  stood  still  to  hear, 
And  the  oaks  followed.     Not  by  chords  alone 
Well  touched,  but  by  resistless  accents  more 
To  sympathetic  tears  the  ghosts  themselves 
He  moved  :  these  praises  to  his  verse  he  ovres 
Nor  thou  persist,  I  pray  thee,  still  to  slight 
The  sacred  Nine,  and  to  imagine  vain 
And  useless,  powers,  by  whom  inspired,  thyself 
Art  skilful  to  associate  verse  with  airs 
Harmonious,  and  to  give  the  human  voice 
A  thousand  modulations,  heir  by  right 
Indisputable  of  Arion's  fame. 
Now  say  what  wonder  is  it,  if  a  son 
Of  thine  delight  in  verse,  if  so  conjoin'd 
In  close  affinity,  we  sympathize 
In  social  arts,  and  kindred  studies  sweet  ? 
Such  distribution  of  himself  to  us 
Was  Phoebus'  choice;  thou  hast  thy  gift,  and  I 


Mine  also,  and  between  us  we  receive, 
Father  and  Son,  the  whole  inspiring  God. 

No  1  howso'er  the  semblance  thou  assume 
Of  hate,  thou  hatest  not  the  gentle  Muse, 
My  Father!   for  thou  never  bad'st  me  tread 
The  beaten  path,  and  broad,  that  leads  right  on 
To  opulence,  nor  didst  condemn  thy  son 
To  the  insipid  clamors  of  the  bar, 
To  laws  voluminous,  and  ill  observed; 
But,  wishing  to  enrich  me  more,  to  rill 
My  mind  with  treasure,  led'st  me  far  awa 
From  city  din  to  deep  retreats,  to  banks 
And  streams  Aonian,  and,  with  free  consent, 
Diilst  place  me  happyat  Apollo's  side. 
I  speak  not  now,  on  more  important  themes 
Intent,  of  common  benefits,  and  such 
As  nature  bids,  but  of  thy  larger  gifts, 
My  Father!  who,  when  I  had  open'd  once 
The  stores  of  Roman  rhetoric,  and  learn'd 
The  full-toned  language  of  the  eloquent  Greeks, 
Whose  lofty  music  graced  the  lips  of  Jove, 
ThysJf  didst  counsel  me  to  add  the  flowers 
That  Gallia  boasts :  these  too  with  which  the  smooth 
Italian  his  degen'iate  speech  adorns, 
That  witnesses  his  mixture  with  the  Goth  ; 
And  Palestine's  prophetic  songs  divine, 
To  sum  the  whole,  whate'er  the  heaven  contains, 
The  earth  beneath  it,  and  the  air  between, 
The  rivers  and  the  restless  deep,  may  all 
Prove  intellectual  gain  to  me,  my  wish 
Concurring  with  thy  will ;   Science  herself, 
All  cloud  removed,  inclines  her  beauteous  head, 
And  offers  me  the  lip,  if,  dull  of  heart, 
I  shrink  not,  and  decline  her  gracious  boon. 

Go  now,  anil  gather  dross,  ye  sordid  minds 
That  covet  it  ;  what  could  my  Father  more  ? 
What  more  could  Jove  himself,  unless  he  gave 
His  o*n  abode  the  heaven  in  which  he  reigns? 
More  eligible  gifts  than  these  were  not 
Apollo's  to  his  son,  had  they  been  safe, 
As  they  were  insecure,  who  made  the  boy 
The  world's  vice  luminary,  bade  him  rule 
The  radiant  chariot  of  the  day,  and  bind 
To  his  young  brows  his  own  all-dazzling  wreath. 
I  therefore,  although  last  and  least,  my  place 
Among  the  learned  in  the  laurel  grove 
Will  hold,  and  where  the  conqu'ror's  ivy  twines, 
Henceforth  exempt  from  the  unletter'd  throng 
Profane,  nor  even  to  be  seen  bv  such 


109 

Away  then,  sleepless  Care,  Complaint,  away, 
And,  Knvy,  with  thy  "jealous  leer  malign!" 
Nor  let  the  monster  Calumny  shoot  forth 
Her  venom'd  tongue  at  me.     Detested  foes  I 
Ye  all  are  impotent  againt  my  peace, 
For  I  am  privileged,  and  bear  my  breast 
Safe,  and  too  high,  for  your  viperian  wound. 

But  thou,  my  Father  !  since  to  render  thanks 
Equivalent,  and  to  requite  by  deeds 
Thy  liberality,  exceeds  my  power, 
Suffice  it,  that  I  thus  recortl  thy  gifts, 
And  bear  them  treasured  in  a  grateful  rrind ! 
Ye  too.  the  fav'rite  pastime  of  my  youth, 
My  voluntary  numbers,  if  ye  dare 
To  hope  longevity,  and  to  survive 
Your  master's  funeral,  not  soon  absorbed 
In  the  oblivious  Lethaean  gulf, 
Shall  to  futurity  perhaps  convey 
This  theme,  and  by  these  praises  of  my  sire 
Improve  the  Fathers  of  a  distant  age. 


TO    SALSILLU9,    A    ROMAN    POET,    MUCH 

INDISPOSED. 

The  original  is  written  in  a  measure  called  Scazon,  which  signifies 
limpinj ;  and  the  measure  is  so  denominated,  because,  though  in  other  re- 
•pecis  lamhii,  it  terminates  with  a  Spondee,  and  has  consequently  a  more 
tardy  movemen'. 

The  reader  will  immediately  see  that  this  property  of  the  Latin  verse 
cannot  be  imitated  in  English. 

My  halting  Muse,  that  dragg'st  by  choice  along 
Thy  slow,  slow  step, .in  melancholy  song, 
And  lik'st  that  pace,  expressive  of  thy  cares, 
Not  less  than  Diopeia's  sprightlier  airs, 
When  in  the  dance,  she  beats,  .vith  measured  tread, 
Heaven's  Hoor,  in  front  oi  Juno's  golden  bed; 
Salute  Salsillus,  who  to  verse  divine 
Prefers,  with  partial  love,  such  lays  as  mine. 
Thus  writes  that  Milton  then,  who  wafted  o'er 
From  his  own  nest,  on  Albion's  stormy  shore, 
Where  Eurus,  fiercest  of  the  /Eolian  band, 
Sweeps,  with  ungovern'd  rage,  the  blasted  land, 

2  * 


410 

Of  late  to  more  serene  Ausonia  came 

To  view  her  cities  of  illustrious  name, 

To  prove,  himself  a  witness  of  the  truth, 

How  wise  her  elders,  and  how  learn'd  her  youth. 

Much  good,  Salsillus !   and  a  body  free 

From  all  disease,  that  Milron  asks  for  thee, 

Who  now  endur'st  the  languor,  and  the  pains, 

That  bile  inflicts,  diffused  through  all  thy  veins, 

Relentless  malady  !   not  moved  to  spare 

By  thy  sweet  Roman  voice,  and  Lesbian  air? 

Health,  Hebe's  sister,  sent  us  from  the  skies, 
And  thou,  Apollo,  whom  all  sickness  tlies, 
Pythius,  or  Paean,  or  what  name  divine 
Soe'er  thou  choose,  haste,  heal  a  priest  of  thine! 
Ye  groves  of  Faunas,  and  ye  hills,  that  melt 
Witli  vinous  dews,  where  meek  Evander  dwelt! 
If  aught  salubrious  in  you*  conh'nes  grow, 
Strive  which  shall  soonest  heal  your  poet's  woe, 
That,  render'd  to  the  Muse  he  loves,  again 
He  may  enchant  the  meadows  witii  his  strain. 
Numa  reclined  in  everlasting  ease, 
Amid  the  shade  of  dark  embow'ring  trees, 
Viewing  with  eyes  of  unabated  fire 
His  loved  ^Egeria,  shall  that  strain  admire  : 
So  soothed,  the  tumid  Tihpr  shall  revere 
The  tombs  of  kings,  nor  desolate  the  year, 
Shall  curb  his  waters  with  a  friendly  rein, 
And  guide  them  harmless,  till  they  meet  the  main* 


411 


TO 

GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  MANSO, 

MARQUIS    OF    VILLA. 


MILTON'S  ACCOUNT  OF  MANSO. 

Giovanni  Batttsta  Manso,  Marquis  of  Villa,  is  an  Italian  nobleman  of 
tie  highest  estimation  among  his  countrymen,  for  genius,  literature,  and 
military  accomplishments.  To  him  Torquato  Tasso  addressed  his  dialogues 
on  Friendship,  for  he  was  much  the  friend  of  Tasso,  who  has  also  cele- 
brated him  among  the  other  princes  of  his  country,  in  his  poem  entitled 
(jerusalemme  Conquistata,  book  xx. 

Fra  cavalier  maynanimi,  e  cortesi, 
Risplende  il  Manso. 

During  the  Author's  stay  at  Naples,  he  received  at  the  hands  of  the  Mar- 
p  jis  a  thousand  kind  offices  and  civilities,  and  desirous  not  to  appear  un- 
p-ateful,  sent  him  this  poem  a  short  time  before  his  departure  from  that 
city. 

These  verses  also  to  thy  praise  the  Nine, 
Oh  Manso!  happy  in  that  theme  design, 
For,  Gallus,  and  Maecenas  gone,  they  see, 
N3ne  such  besides,  or  whom  they  love  as  thee, 
And,  it'  my  verse  may  give  the  meed  of  fame, 
Thine  too  shall  prove  an  everlasting  name. 
Already  such,  it  shines  in  Tasso's  page 
(For  thou  wast  Tasso's  friend)  from  age  to  age, 
And,  next,  the  Muse  consign'd  (not  unaware 
How  high  the  charge)  Marino  to  thy  care, 
\Vho,  singing  to  the  nymphs,  Adonis'  praise, 
Boasts  thee  the  patron  of  his  copious  lays. 
To  thee  alone  the  poet  would  entrust 
His  latest  vows,  to  thee  alone  his  dust ; 
And  thou  with  punctual  piety  hast  paid, 
•  In  lahor'd  brass,  thy  tribute  to  his  shade. 
Nor  this  contented  thee — bu1.  lest  the    grave 
Should  aught  absorb  of  theirs,  which  thou  couldst  save, 
All  future  ages  thou  hast  deign'd  to  teach 
The  life,  lot,  genius,  character  of  each, 


Eloquent  as  the  Carian  sage,  who  Ifue 

To  his    r  at  theme,  the  life  of  Homer  drew, 

I,  therefore,  though  a  stranger  youth,  who  come 
Chill'd  by  rude  blasts,  that  freeze  my  northern  hou.c, 
Thee  dear  to  Clio,  confident  proclaim, 
And  thine,  for  Phoebus'  sake,  a  deathless  name. 
Nor  thou,  so  kind,  wilt  view  with  scornful  eye 
A  muse  scarce  rear'd  beneath  our  sullen  sky, 
Who  fears  not,  indiscreet  as  she  is  young, 
To  seek  in  Latium  hearers  of  her  song. 
We  too,  where  Thames  with  his  unsullied  waves 
The  tresses  of  the  blue-hair'd  Ocean  laves, 
Hear  oft  by  night,  or,  slumb'ring,  seem  to  hear, 
O'er  his  wide  stream,  the  swan's  voice  warbling  clear, 
And  we  could  boast  a  Tityrus  of  yore, 
Who  trod,  a  welcome  guest,  your  happy  shore. 

Yes  —dreary  as  we  own  our  northern  clime, 
K'en  we  to  Phoebus  raise  the  polish'd  rhyme. 
We  too  serve  Phoabus;   Phoebus  has  received 
(If  legends  old  may  claim  to  be  believed) 
No  sordid  gifts  from  us,  the  golden  ear, 
The  burnish'd  apple,  ruddiest  of  the  year, 
The  fragrant  crocus,  and  to  grace  his  fane, 
Fair  damsels  chosen  from  the  Druid  train: 
Druids,  our  native  bards  in  ancieiu  time, 
Who  gods  and  heroes  praised  in  hal'.ow'd  rhyme: 
Hence,  often  as  the  maids  of  Greece  surround 
Appollo's  shnne  with  hymns  of  festive  sound, 
They  name  the  virgins,  who  arrived  of  yore, 
With  British  oft"1  nags,  on  the  Delian  shore; 
Loxo,  ftom  giant  Corineus  sprung, 
Upis,  on  whose  blest  lips  the  future  hung, 
And  Hecaerge,  with  the  golden  hair, 
All  deck'd  with  Pictish  hues,  and  all  with  bosoms  bare 

ThoJ,  therefore,  happy  sage,  whatever  clime 
Shall  ring  with  Tasso's  praise  in  after- time, 
Or  with  Marino's,  shalt  be  known  their  friend, 
A  ad  w'uh  an  equal  Might  to  fame  ascend. 
The  worlJ  shall  hear  how  Phoebus,  and  ihe  Nine, 
Were  inmates  once,  and  willing  guests  of  thine. 
Yet  Phoebus,  when  of  old  constraint!  to  roam 
The  eaith,  an  exile  from  his  heavenly  home, 
Enter'd,  no  willing  guest,  Admetus'  door, 
Though  Hercules  had  ventured  there  befoie. 
But  gentle  Chiron's  cave  was  near,  a  scene 
Of  rural  peace,  clothed  with  perpetual  green. 
And  thither,  oft  as  respite  he  required 
From  rustic  clamors  loud,  the  god  retired. 
There,  many  a  time,  on  Peneus'  bank  reclined 


413 

At  some  oak's  root,  with  ivy  thick  entwined, 
Won  by  his  hospitable  friend's  desire, 
He  soothed  his  pains  of  exile  with  the  lyre. 
Then  shook  the  hills,  then  trembled  Peneus'  shore, 
Nor  Oeta  felt  his  load  of  forests  more  ; 
The  upl.md   elms  descended  to  the  plain, 
And  softened  lynxes  wonder'd  at  the  strain. 
Well  may  we  think,  O  dear  to  all  above  ! 
Thy  birth  distinguished  by  the  smile  of  Jove, 
And  that  Apollo  shed  his  kindliest  pow'r, 
And  Maia's  son,  on  that   propitious  hour, 
Since  only  minds  so  born  can  comprehend 
A  poet's  worth,  or  yield  that  worth  a  friend. 
Hence,  on  thy  yet  unladed  cheek  appears 
The  ling'ring  freshness  of  thy  greener  years ; 
Hence,  in  thy  front,  and  features,  we  admire 
Nature  unwither'd  and  a  mird  entiie. 
Oh  might  so  true  a  friend  to  me  belong, 
So  skill'd  to  grace  the  votaries  of  song, 
Should  I  recall  hereafter  into  rhyme 
The  kings,  and  heroes  of  the  native  clime, 
Arthur  the  chief,  who  even  now  prepares, 
In  subterraneous  being,  future  wars, 
With  all  his  martial  knights,  to  be  restored, 
Each  to  his  seat,  around  the  fed'ral  board, 
And  oh,  if  spirt  fail  me  not,  disperse 
Our  Saxon  plund'rers,  in  triumphant  verse ' 
Then,  after  all,  when,  with  the  pa&t  content, 
A  life  I  finish,  not  in  silence  spent, 
Should  he,  kind  mourner,  o'er  my  death-bed  bend, 
I  shall  but  need  to  say — "  Be  yet  my  friend:" 
He,  too,  perhaps,  shall  bid  the  marble  breathe 
To  honor  me,  and  with  the  graceful  wreathe, 
Or  of  Parnassus,  or  the  Paphian  isle, 
Shall  bind  my  brows — but  J  shall  rest  the  while, 
Tnen  also,  if  the  fruits  of  Faith  endure, 
And  virtue's  promised  recompense  be  sure. 
Borne  to  those  seats,  to  which  the  blest  aspire 
By  purity  of  soul,  and  virtuous  fire, 
These  rites,  as  Fate  permits,  I  shall  survey 
With  eyes  illumined  by  celestial  day, 
And,  ev'ry  cloud  from  my  poor  spirit  driv'a, 
Joy  in  the  bright  beatitude  of  Heav'nl 


2  M  2 


414 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DAMON. 


THE    ARGUMENT. 

Thyrsis  and  Damon,  shepherds  and  neighbours,  had  always  pursued 
the  same  studies,  and  had,  from  their  earliest  days,  been  united  in  the 
closest  friendship.  Thyrsis,  while  travelling  for  improvement,  received 
intelligence  of  the  death  of  Damon,  t,nd  after  a  time,  returning  and  find- 
ing it  true,  deplores  himself,  and  his  solitary  condition,  in  this  poem. 

By  Damon  is  to  be  understood  Charles  Deodati,  connected  with  thft 
Italian  city  of  Lucca,  by  his  father's  side,  in  other  respects  an  Englishman; 
u  youth  of  uncommon  genius,  erudition,  and  virtue. 

Ye  nymphs  of  Himera  (for  ye  have  shed 
Erewhile  for  Daphnis,  and  for  Hylas  dead, 
And  over  Dion's  lung  lamented  bier, 
The  fruitless  mead  of  many  a  sacred  tear), 
Now  through  the  villas  laved  by  Thames,  rehearse 
The  woes  of  Thyrsis  in  Sicilian  verse, 
What  si^hs  he  heaved,  and  how  with  groans  profound 
He  made  the  woods,  and  hollow  rocks  resound, 
Young  Damon  dead ;  nor  even  ceased  to  pour 
His  lonely  sorrows,  at  the  midnight  hour* 

The  green  wheat  twice  had  nodded  in  the  ear, 
And  golden  harvest  twice  enriched  the  year, 
Since  Damon's  lips  had  gasp'd  for  vital  air 
The  last,  last  time,  nor  Thyrsis  yet  was  there  ; 
For  he,  enamoured  of  the  muse,  remained 
In  Tuscan  Fiorenza  long  detained, 
But,  stored  at  length  with  all  he  wish'd  to  learn, 
For  his  flock's  sake  now  hasted  to  return  ; 
And  w;ien  the  shepherd  had  resumed  his  seat 
At  the  elm's  root,  within  his  old  retreat, 
Then  'twas  his  lot,  then,  all  his  loss  to  know, 
And,  from  his  burthen'd  heart,  he  vented  thus  his  woe. 
'•  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are  due 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Alas  !  what  deities  shall  1  suppose 
In  heav'n,  or  earth,  concern'd  for  human  woes, 
Since,  oh  my  Darnon !  their  severe  decree 
So  soon  condemns  me  to  regret  of  thee! 
Depart'st  thou  thus,  thy  virtues  unrepaid 
With  fame  and  honor,  like  a  vulgar  shade? 
Let  him  forbid  it,  whose  bright  rod  controls, 


415 

And  sep'rates  sordid  from  illustrious  souls, 
Drive  far  the  rabble,  and  to  thee  assign 
A  happier  lot,  with  spirits  worthy  thine! 

"Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are  due 
Toother  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Whate'er  befal,  unless  by  cruel  chance 
The  wolf  first  give  me  a  forbidding  glance, 
Thou  shall  not  moulder  umleplor'd,  but  long 
Thy  praise  shall  dwell  on  ev'ry  shepherd's  tongue  ; 
To  Daphnis  first  they  shall  delight  to  pay, 
And,  after  him,  to  thee  the  votive  lay, 
\Vhile  Pales  shall  the  flocks,  and  pastures,  love, 
Or  Faunus  to  frequent  the  field,  or  grove, 
At  least,  if  ancient  piety  and  truth, 
With  all  the  le. trued  labours  of  thy  youth, 
May  serve  thee  aught,  or  to  have  left  behind 
A  sorrowing  friend,  and  of  the  tuneful  kind. 

*'  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs;  my  thoughts  are  due 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Yes,  Damon  !   such  thy  sure  reward  sh  ill  be  ; 
But  ah  !   what  doom  awaits  unhappy  me  ? 
Who,  now,  my  pains  and  perils  shall  divide, 
As  tliou  wast  wont,  for  ever  at  my  side, 
Both  when  the  rugged  frost  annoy 'd  our  feet, 
And  when  the  herbage  all  was  parch'd  with  heat ! 
Whether  the  grim  wolf's  ravage  to  prevent, 
Or  the  huge  lions',  arm'd  with  darts  we  went? 
\\  hose  converse  now  shall  calm  my  stormy  day 
With  charming  song,  who  now  beguile  my  way? 

"  Go,  seek  your  homes,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are  daa 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
In  wham  shall  I  confide?   whose  counsel  find 
A  balmy  med'cine  fur  my  troubled  mind  ? 
Or  whose  discourse,  with  innocent  delight, 
Shall  fill  me  now,  and  cheat  the  wint'ry  night, 
While  hisses  on  my  hearth  the  pulpy  pear, 
And  black'ning  chesnuts  start  and  crackle  there  ; 
While  storms  abroad  the  dreary  meadows  whelm, 
And  the  wind  thunders  through  the  neighb'ring  elm? 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are  due 
To  otli<er  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Or  who,  when  summer  suns  their  summit  reach, 
And  Pan  sleeps  hidden  by  the  shelt'nng  beech, 
When  shepherds  disappear,  nymphs  se^  k  the  sec'ge, 
And  the  stretch'd  rustic  snores  beneath  the  hed^e, 
Who  then  shall  render  me  thy  pleasant  vein 
Of  Attic  wit,  thy  jests,  thy  smiles  ^,-,-in  ? 

**Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are  due 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 


416 

Wheie  glens  and  vales  are  thickest  overgrown 
With  tangled  boughs.  I  wander  now  alone, 
Till  night  descend,  while  blust'ring  wind  and  show-'* 
Beat  on  my  temples  through  the  fhatter'd  bow'r. 

"  Go.  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  art  d  i 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Alas !  what  rampant  weeds  now  shame  my  fields,. 
And  what  amiliew'd  crop  the  furrow  y  elds  ! 
My  rambling  vines,  unwed, led  to  the  trees, 
Bear  shrivell'd  grapes,  my  myrtles  fail  to  please, 
Nor  please  me  more  my  flocks ;  they,  slighted,  turn 
Their  unavailing  looks  on  me,  and  mourn.  [due 

'•  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
JE^on  invites  me  to  the  hazer  grove, 
Aniyntas,  on  the  river's  bank  to  rove, 
And  young  Alphesibreus  to  a  seat 
Where  branching  elms  exclude  the  mid-day  heat. 
"  Here  fountains  spring — here   mossy  hillocks  rise  ;" 
"  Here  Zephyr  whispers,  and  the  stream  replies." 
Thus  each  persuades,  but,  deaf  to  ev'ry  call, 
I  gain  the  thickets,  and  escape  them  all.  [due 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are 
To  other  cares,  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Then  Mopsus  said  (the  same  who  reads  so  well 
The  voice  of  birds,  and  what  the  stars  foretell, 
For  he  by  chance  had  notic'd  my  return), 
'  What  means  thy  sullen  mood,  this  deep  concern  ? 
Ah,  Thyrsis !   thou  art  either  crazed  with  love, 
Or  some  sinister  influence  from  above  ; 
Dull  Saturn's  influence  oft  the  shepherds  rue ; 
His  leaden  shaft  oblique  has  pierced  thee  through.' 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  unpastured  as  ye  are  ; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
The  nymphs  amazed,  my  melancholy  see, 
And  '  i'hyrsis,'  cry — '  what  will  become  of  thee  ! 
"What  would'st  thou,  Thyrsis?  such  should  not  appear 
The  brow  of  youth,  stern,  gloomy,  and  severe  ; 
Brisk  youth   should   laugh,  and  love— ah  shun  the  fair 
Of  those,  twice  wretched  mopes!   who  love  toe   late!' 

"  G«,  go,  rny  lambs,  unpastured  as  ye  are; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  ocher  care. 
yEgle  with  Hyas  came,  to  soothe  my  pain, 
And  Baucis'  daughter,  Dry  ope,  the  vain, 
Fair  Dryope,  for  voice  and  finger  neat 
Known  far  and  near,  and  for  her  self-conceit ; 
Chloris  too  came  whose  cottage  on  the  lands, 
That  skirt  the  Idumanian  current,  stands ; 
But  all  iu  vain  they  came,  and  but  to  see 


417 

Kind  words,  and  comfortable,  lost  on  me. 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  imp  istured  as  ye  are 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  duu  to  other  care. 
Ah,  blest  indift°'rence  of  the  playful  herd, 
None  by  his  fellow  chosen,  or  preferr'd ! 
No  bonds  of  amity  the  Hocks  enthrall, 
But  each  associates,  and  is  pleased  with  all ; 
So  graze  the  dappbd  deer  in  num'rous  droves, 
And  all  his  kiml   alike  the  zebra  loves  ; 
The  same  law  governs,  where  the  billows  roar, 
And  Proteus'  shoals  o'erspread  the  desert  shore; 
The  sparrow,  meanest  of  the  feather' d  race, 
His  fit  companion  finds  in  ev'ry  place, 
With  wli  mi  he  p.cks  the  grain  that  suits  him  best, 
Flirts  here  and  there,  and  late  returns  to  rest, 
And  whom  it  chance  the  falcon  makes  his  prey 
Or  hedger  with  his  well-aim 'd  arrow  slay, 
For  no  such  loss  the  gay  survivor  grieves: 
New  love  he  seeks,  and  new  delight  receives, 
We  only,  an  obdurate  kind,  rejoice, 
Scorning  all  others,  in  a  single  choice. 
We  scarce  in  thousands  meet  one  kindred  mind, 
And  if  the  long-sought  good  at  last  we  find, 
When  least  we  fear  it,  Death  our  treasure  steals, 
And  gives  our  heart  a  wound,  that  nothing  heals 

"Go,  go,  my  lambs,  unpastured  as  ye  are; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
All,  what  delusion  lured  me  from  my  Hocks, 
To  traverse  Alpine  snows,  and  rugged  rocks 
What  need  so  great  had  I  to  visit  Rome, 
Now  sunk  in  ruins,  and  herself  a  tomb? 
Or,  had  she  flourished  still  as  when  of  old, 
For  her  s-ike  Tityrus  torsook  his  fold, 
What  need  had  I  so  great  t'  incur  a  pause 
Of  thy  sweet  intercourse  for  such  a  cause, 
For  such  a  cause  to  place  the  roaring  sea, 
Kocks,  mountains,  woods,  between   my  friend  and  me 
Else,  had  I  g  a-p'd  thy  feeble  hand,  composed 
Thy  decent  limbs,  thy  drooping  eyelids  closed, 
And  at  the  last,  had  said--'  Farewell — ascend — 
Nor  even  in  the  skies  forget  thy  friend  !' 

"Go,  go,  my  lambs,  amended  homeward  fare; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
Although  well -pleased,  ye' tuneful  Tuscan  swains! 
My  mind  the  meai'ry  of  your  worth  retains, 
Yet  not  your  worth  can  teach  me  less  to  mourn 
My  Dam m  lost — He  too  w  is  Tuscan  born, 
Born  in  Lucca,  city  of  renown ! 
And  wit  possess'd,  and  genius,  like  your  own. 


418 

Ob  how  elate  was  I,  when  stretch 'd  beside 

The  murm'ring  course  of  Arno's  breezy  tide, 

Beneath  the  poplar  grove  I  pass'd  my  hours, 

Now  cropping  myrtles,  and  now  vernal  flow'rs, 

And  hearing,  as  J  lay  at  ease  along, 

Your  swains  contending  for  the  prize  of  song! 

I  also  dared  attempt   (and,  as  it  seems, 

Not  much  displeased  attempting)  various  themes, 

For  even  I  can  presents  boast  from  you, 

The  shepherd's  pipe,  and  ozier  basket  too, 

And  Dati,  and  Francin  both  have  made 

My  name  familiar  to  the  beechen  shade, 

And  they  are  learn'd,  and  each  in  ev'ry  place 

Renown'd  the  song,  and  both  of  Lydian  race. 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  untencled  homeward  fare  ; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
While  bright  the  dewy  grass  with  moon-beams  shona, 
And  I  stood  hurdling  in  my  kids  alone, 
How  often  have  1  said  (but  thou  hadst  found 
Ere  then  thy  dark  cold  lodgment  under  ground) 
Now  Damon  sings,  or  springes  sets  for  hares, 
Or  wicker-work  for  various  use  prepares  ! 
How  oft,  indulging  fancy,  have  I  plann'd 
New  scenes  of  pleasure,  tVit  I  hoped  at  hand, 
Called  thee  abroad  as  I  was  wont,  and  cried — 
'  What  hoa!  my  friend — come  lay  thy  task  aside, 
Haste,  let  us  forth  together,  and  beguile 
Th;j  heat,  beneath  you  whisp'ring  shades  awhile, 
Or  on  the  margin  stray  of  Colne's  clear  flood, 
Or  where  Cassihelan's  grey  turrets  stood  ! 
There  thou  shah  cull  me  simples,  and  shult  teach 
Thy  friend  the  name,  and  healing  pow'rs  of  each, 
From  the  tall  blue-bell  to  the  dwarfish  weed, 
What  the  cry  1  md,  and  what  the  marshes  breed; 
For  all  their  kinds  alike  tu  thee  are  known, 
And  the  whole  heart  of  Galen  is  thy  own. 
Ah,  perish  Galen's  art,  and  witli'r'd  be 
The  useless  herbs,  chat  gave  not  health  to  thee! 
Twelve  evenings  since,  as  in  poetic  dream 
I  meditating  sat  some  statelier  theme, 
The  reeds  no  sooner  touch  d  my  lip,  though  new, 
And  unessay'd  before,  than  wide  they  flew, 
Bursting  their  waxen  bands  nor  could  sustain 
The  deep-toned  music  of  the  solemn  strain: 
And  I  am  vain  perhaps,  but  I  will  tell 
How  proud  a  theme  I  choose— ye  groves,  farewell 

"Go,  go,  my  lambs,  untendecl  homeward  fare; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  ca.e. 
Of  Brutus,  Dardan  chief,  my  song  shall  be, 


419 

How  with  his  barks  he  plough'd  the  British  sea, 

First  from  Rutupia  s  tow'ring  headland  seen, 

And  of  his  consorts  reign,  {'air  Imogen; 

Of  Hrennus  and  Belinus,  brotliers  buld, 

And  of  Arviragus,  and  liow  of  old 

Our  hardy  sires  th'  Armorican  controll'd, 

And  of  tlie  wife  of  Gorlois,  who,  su:  prised 

By  Uther,  in  her  husband's  from  disguised, 

(Such  was  the  force  of  Merlin's  art) became 

Pregnant  with  Arthur  of  heroic  fame. 

These  themes  I  now  revolve— and  oil — if  Fate 

Proportion  to  these  themes  my  lenthen'-i  date, 

Adieu  my  shepherd's  reed — yon  pine-tree  bough 

Shall  be  thy  future  home,  there  d, ingle  tbou 

Forgotten  and  disused,  unless  ere  long 

Thou  change  thy  Latian  for  a  British  sorg; 

A  British  ? — even  so — the  pow'is  of  man 

Are  bounded  ;  little  is  the  most  he  can  ; 

And  it  shall  well  suffice  me,  and  sh;.ll  be 

Fame,  and  proud  recompense  enough  for  me, 

If  Usa,  golden-hair'd  my  verse  may  learn, 

If  Alain  bending  o'er  his  crystal  urn, 

Swift  whirling  Abra,  Trent's  o'ershado\v'd  stream, 

Thames,  lovelier  far  than  all  in  my  esteem, 

Tamar's  ore-tinctured  flood,  and,  after  these, 

The  wave-worn  shores  of  utmost  Orcades. 

"Go,  go,  my  lambs,  untended  homeward  fare  ; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  c..n  . 
All  this  I  kept  in  leaves  of  laurel-rim! 
Enfolded  safe,  and  for  thy  view  desigri'd, 
This — and  a  g'ft  from  Manso's  hand  beside, 
(Manso,  not  least  his  native  city's  pride 
Two  cups,  that  radiant  as  their  giver  sho:ie. 
Adorn' d  by  sculpture  wun  a  double  7,0:  e. 
The  spring  was  graven  there;  here  slowly  uii,  ! 
The  Red-sea  shores  with  groves  of  spices  lined  ; 
Her  plumes  of  various  hues  amid  the  boughs 
The  sacred  solitary  Phuenix  shows, 
And  watchful  of  the  dawn  reverts  her  head, 
To  see  Aurora  leave  her  wat'ry  bed 

"In  other  part  th'expansive  vault  above, 
And  there  too,  even  there,  the  god  of  love  : 
Witn  quiver  arm'd  he  mounts,  his  torch  displays 
A  vivid  light,  his  gem-tipt  arrows  blaze. 
Around  his  bright  and  fiery  eyes  he  rolls, 
Nor  aims  at  vulgar  minds,  or  little  souls, 
Nor  deigns  one  look  below,  but  aiming  high 
Sends  every  arrow  to  the  lofty  sky  ; 
Hence  forms  divine,  and  minds  immortal,  learn 


420 

The  pow'r  of  Cupid,  and  enamour'd  burn. 

"Thou  also,  Damon,  (neither  need  1  fear 
That  hope  delusive),  thou  art  also  there; 
For  whither  should  simplicity  like  thine 
Retire  ?  where  else  such  spotless  virtue  shine? 
Thou  dweli'st  not  (thought  profane)  in  shades  below, 
Nor  tears  suit  thee — cease  then  my  tears  to  How  ; 
Away  with  grief!  on  Damon  ill  bestow'd  ! 
Who,  pure  himself,  has  found  a  pure  abode, 
H  is  pass'd  the  show'ry  arch,  henceforth  resides 
With  saints  and  heroes,  and  from  flowing  tides 
Quaffs  copious  immortality,  and  joy, 
With  hallow' d  lips: — Oh!  blest  without  alloy, 
And  now  enrich'd,  with  all  that  faith  can  claim, 
Look  down,  entreated  by  whatever  name, 
If  Damon  please  thee  most  (that  rural  sound 
Shall  oft  with  echoes  fill  the  groves  around), 
Or  if  Diodatus,  by  which  alone 
In  those  ethereal  mansions  thou  art  known. 
Thy  blush  was  maiden,  and  thy  youth  the  taste 
Of  wedded  bliss  knew  never,  pure  and  chaste, 
The  honors,  therefore,  by  divine  decree 
The  lot  of  virgin  worth,  are  given  to  thee; 
Thy  brows  encircled  with  a  radiant  band, 
And  the  green  palm  branch  waving  in  thy  hand, 
Thou  in  immortal  nuptials  shall  rejoice, 
And  join  with  seraphs  ihy  according  voice, 
Where  rapture  reigns,  and  the  ecstatic  lyre 
Guides  the  blest  orgies  of  the  blazing  quire." 


421 


AN  ODE 

ADDRESSED    TO    MR.    JOHN    ROUSI, 
LIBRARIAN    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY    OF    OXFORD 

Cn  a  lost  Volume  of  my  Poems,  which  he  desired  me  to  replact, 
tiiat  he  might  add  them  to  my  other  Works  deposited  in 

the  Library 


This  ode  is  rendered  without  rhyme,  that  it  might  more  adequately  re- 
present the  original,  which,  as  Milton  himself  informs  us,  is  of  no  certain 
measure.  It  may  possibly  for  this  reason  disappoint  the  reader,  though  it 
cost  the  writer  more  labour  thau  the  translation  of  any  other  piece  ia  the 
whole  collection. 


STROPHE. 

MY  two-fold  book  !  single  in  show 

But  double  in  contents, 
Neat  but  not  curiously  adorn'd, 

Which  in  his  early  youth, 
A  poet  gave,  no  lofty  one  in  truth, 
Although  an  earnest  wooer  of  the  Muse- 
Say  while  in  cool  Ausonian  shades, 

Or  British  wilds  he  roam'd, 
Striking  by  turns  his  native  lyre, 
By  lurns  the  Daunian  lute, 
And  stepp'd  almost  in  air, — 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Say,  little  book,  what  furtive  hand 
Thee  from  thy  fellow-Dooks  convey 'd. 
What  time  at  the  repeated  suit 

Of  my  me  st  learned  friend, 
I  sent  thee  forth  an  honcr'd  traveller 

2  o 


422 

From  our  great  city  to  the  source  of  Thames, 

C  erul.  an  sire  ! 

Where  rise  the  fountains,  and  the  raptures  ring, 
Of  the  Aonian  choir, 
Durable  as  yonder  spheres, 
And  though  the  endless  lapse  of  year* 
Secured  to  be  admired  1 

STROPHE  H. 

Now  what  god,  or  demigod, 
For  Britain's  ancient  genius  moved 

(If  our  afflicted  land 
Have  expiated  at  length  the  guilty  sloth 

Of  her  degenerate  sons) 
Shall  terminate  our  impious  feuds, 
Arid  discipline,  with  hallowed  voice  recall  ? 

Recall  i he  Muses  too, 
*  Driven  from  their  ancient  seats, 

In  Albion,  and  well  nigh  from  Albion's  shore, 
And  with  keen  Phcebean  shafts 
Piercing  th'  unseemly  birds, 
Whose  talons  menace  us, 
Shall  drive  the  harpy  race  from  Helicon  afar  ? 

ANTISTROPHE 

But  thou,  my  book,  though  thou  hast  stray'dj 

Whether  by  treach'ry  lost, 
Or  indolent  neglect,  thy  bearer's  fault, 

From  all  thy  kindred  books, 
To  some  dark  cell,  or  cave  forlorn, 

Where  thou  endur'st,  perhaps, 
The  chafing  of  some  hard  untutor'd  hand, 

Be  comforted — 
For  lo,  again  the  splendid  hope  appears 

That  thou  may'st  yet  escape 
The  gulfs  of  Lethe,  and  on  oary  wings 
Mount  to  the  everlasting  courts  of  Jove! 

STROPHE    III. 

Since  Rouse  desires  thee,  and  complains, 

That,  though  by  promise  his, 
Thou  yet  appear'st  not  in  thy  place 
Among  the  literary  noble  stores, 

Given  to  his  care, 

But,  absent,  leav'st  his  numbers  incomplete, 
He,  therefore,  guaruian  vigilant 


423 

Of  that  unperishing  wealth, 
Calls  thee  to  the  interior  shrine,  his  charge, 
Win-re  he  intends  a  richer  treasure  far 
Than  Ion  kept  (Ion,  Erectheus'  son, 
Illustrious,  of  the  fair  Creiisa  born) 
In  the  resplendent  temple  of  his  god, 
Tripods  of  gold,  and  Delphic  gifts  divine. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Haste,  then,  to  the  pleasant  groves, 
The  Muses'  fav'rite  haunt; 
Resume  thy  station  in  Apollo's  dome. 

Dearer  to  him 
Than  Delos,  or  the  fork'd  Parnassian  hill! 

Exulting  go, 

Since  now  a  splendid  lot  is  also  thine, 
And  thou  art  sought  by  my  propitious  friend ; 

For  there  thou  shah  be  read 
With  authors  of  exalted  note, 
The  ancient  glorious  lights  of  Greece  and  Rome. 

EPODE. 

Ye  then,  my  works,  no  longer  vain, 

And  worthless  deem'd  by  me! 
Whate'er  this  steril  genius  has  produced 
Expect,  at  last,  the  rage  of  envy  spent, 

An  unmolested  happy  home, 
Gift  of  kind  Hermes,  and  my  watchful  friend, 
Where  never  flippant  tongue  profane 

Shall  entrance  find, 
And  whence  the  coarse  unletter'd  multitude 

Shall  babble  far  remote. 
Perhaps  some  future  distant  age, 
Less  tinged  with  prejudice,  and  better  taught. 
Shall  furnish  minds  of  pow'r 
To  judge  more  equal  y. 
Then,  malice  silenced  in  the  tomb, 
Cooler  heads  and  sounder  hearts, 
Thanks  to  House,  if  aught  of  praise 
I  merit,  shall  with  candour  weigh  the  claim. 


424 


TRANSLATIONS 

OF 

THE  ITALIAN  POEMS. 


SONNET. 


F.iir  lady  !  whose  harmonious  name  the  Rhine, 
Through  all  his  grassy  vale,  delights  to  hear, 
Base  where  indeeu  the  wretch  who  could  forbear 

To  love  a  sp  rit  elegant  as  thine, 

That  maiiifesU  a  sweetness  all  divine, 

IN  or  knows  a  thousand  winning  acts  to  spare, 
And  graces,  which  Love's  bow  and  arrows  are, 

Temp'ring  thy  virtues  to  a  softer  shine. 

When  gracefully  thou  speak'st,  or  siagest  gay, 
Such  strains,  as  might  tlie  senseles*  forest  move, 

Ah  then — turn  each  his  eyes,  and  eais.  away, 
Who  feels  hrnself  unworthy  of  thy  love! 

Grace  can  alone  preserve  him,  ere  the  dart 

Of  fond  desire  yet  reach  his  inmost  heart. 


SONNET. 

As  on  a  hill-top  rude,  when  closing  day 
Imbrowns  the  scene,  some  past'ral  maiden  fait 
Waters  a  lovt-ly  foreign  plant  with  care, 
Borne  from  its  native  genial  air  away, 
That  scarcely  can  a  tender  bud  display  ; 

So,  011  my  tongue  these  accents,  new  and  rare, 
Are  flow'rs  exotic,  which  Love  waters  there, 
While  thus,  O  sweetly  scornful,  I  essay 

Thy  praise,  in  verse  to  British  ears  unknown. 
And  Thames  exchanged  for  Arno's  fair  domain » 
So  Love  as  will'd,  and  wfttimes  Love  has  showu, 
That  what  he  wills,  he  never  wills  in  vain  : 
Oh  that  his  hard  and  stteril  breast  in>ght  be 
To  him,  who  plants  from  heav'n,  a  soil  as  heel 


-.6 


CANZONE. 

They  mock  my  toil,  the  nymphs  andam'rous  swains, 
And  whence  this  fond  attempt  to  write,  they  cry, 
Love  songs  in  language  that  thou  little  know'st .' 
How  dar'st  thou  risk  to  sing  these  foreign  sti  aii.s  I 
Say  truly.      Find'st  not  oft  thy  purpose  cro-s'd, 
And  that  thy  fairest  flowers  here  fade  and  die? 
Then  with  pretence  of  admiration  high — 
Thee  other  shores  expect,  and  other  tides; 
Rivers,  on  whose  grassy  sides 
Her  deathless  laurel-leaf,  with  which  to  bind 
Thy  flowing  locks,  already  Fame  provides  ; 
Why  then  this  burthen,  better  far  declined? 

Speak,  Muse  !  for  me. — The  fair  one  said,  who  guidef 
My  willing  heart,  and  all  my  fancy's  flights, 
"  This  is  the  language  in  which  love  delights." 


SONNET. 


Lady  !  it  cannot  be  but  that  thine  eyes 

Must  be  my  sun,  such  radiance  they  display, 
And  strike  me  e'en  as  Phoebus  him,  whose  way 
Through  horrid  Libya's  sandy  desert  lies. 
Meantime,  on  that  side  steamy  vapours  rise 
Where  most  I  suffer.     Of  what  kind  are  they, 
New  as  tome  they  are,  I  cannot  say, 
But  deem  them,  in  the  lover's  language — sighs. 
Some,  though  with  pain,  my  bosom  close  concealg, 
Which,  ii  in  part  escaping  thence,  they  tend 
To  soften  time,  thy  coldness  soon  congeals. 
While  ethers  to  my  tearful  eyes  ascend, 
Whence  my  sad  nights  in  show'rs  are  ever  drown'd. 
Till  "ny  Aurora  comes,  her  brow  with  roses 


2  o  -2 


POEMS, 

TRANSLATED   FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME 
I)E  LA  MOTHE  GUION. 


THE  NATIVITY. 

'Tis  folly  all — let  me  no  more  be  told 
Of  Parian  porticos,  and  roofs  of  gold  ; 
Delighted  views  of  Nature,  dress'd  by  Art, 
Enchant  no  longer  this  inditFrent  heart  ; 
The  Lord  of  all  things,  in  his  humble  birth, 
Makes  mean  the  proud  magnificence  of  Earth  . 
The  straw,  the  manger,  and  the  mould'ring  wall 
Eclipse  its  lustre  ;  and  I  scorn  it  all. 

Canals,  and  fountains,  and  delicious  vales, 
Green  slopes  and  plains,  whose  plenty  never  fails  ; 
Deep-rooted  groves,  whose  heads  sublimely  rise, 
Earth-born,  and  yet  ambitious  of  the  skies; 
The  abundant  foliage  of  whose  gloomy  shades, 
Vainly  the  sun,  in  all  its  pow'r  invades; 
Where  warbled  airs  of  sprightly  birds  resound, 
Whose  verdure  lives  while  Winter  scowls  around, 
Rocks,  lofty  mountains,  caverns  dark  and  deep, 
And  torrents  raving  down  the  rugged  steep, 
Smooth  downs,  whose  fragrant  heros  the  spirits  cheer; 
MiMds  c.own'd  with  flow'rs;  streams  musical  and 
Whose  silver  waters,  and  whose  murmurs,  join   [clear, 
Their  artless  charms,  to  make  the  scene  divine  ; 
The  fruitful  vineyard,  and  the  furrow' d  plain, 
That  seems  a  rolling  sea  of  golden  grain  : 
All,  all  have  lost  the  charms  they  once  possess'd; 
An  infmt  God  reigns  sov'reign  in  my  breast  ; 
From  Bethl'em's  bosom  I  no  more  will  rove  ; 
There  dwells  the  Saviour,  and  there  rests  my  love. 

Ye  mightier  rivers,  that,  with  sounding  force, 
Uro-e  down  the  valleys  your  impetuous  course!   [heads, 
Winds,  clouds,  and  lightning's  !  and  ye  waves,  whu.e 
Cuii'd  into  monstrous  forms,  the  seaman  dreads  I 


427 

Horrid  abyss,  where  all  experience  fails, 

Spread  with  the  wreck  ot  planks  and  shatter'd  sails  j 

On  whose  broad  back  grim  Death  triumphant  rides, 

While  havoc  Boats  on  all  thy  swelling  tides, 

Thy  shores  a  scene  ot  ruin,  strew'd  around 

\Vith  vessels  bulged,  and  bodies  ot  the  drown'd! 

Ye  fish,  that  sport  beneath  the  boundless  waves, 
And  rest,  secure  from  man,  in  rocky  caves  , 
Swift-darting  sharks,  and  whales  of  hideous  size, 
Whom  all  th'aquatic  world  with  terror  eyes! 
Had  I  but  faiih  immovable  and  true, 
1  might  defy  the  fiercest  storm,  like  you  ; 
Tlu-  uorld,  a  more  disturb'd  and  boist'rous  sea, 
\\  hen  Jesus  shows  a  smile,  affrights  not  me  ; 
He  l^des  me,  and  in  vain  the  billows  roar, 
Break  harmless  at  my  feet,  and  leave  the  shore. 

Thou  azure  vault,  where,  through  the  gloom  of  night 
Thick  sown,  we  see  such  countless  worlds  of  light  1 
Tuuu  Moon,  whose  car,  encompassing  the  skies, 
Ivts.ores  lost  Nature  to  our  wond'ring  eyes; 
Again  retiring,  when  the  brighter  Sun 
Bdjiii.s  the  course  he  seems  in  haste  to  run ! 
Jii-.h.'lu  him  where  he  shines!    His  rapid  rays, 
Then. stives  unmeasured,  measure  all  our  days; 
Nothing  impedes  the  race  he  would  pursue, 
Nothing  escapes  his  penetrating  view, 
A  thousand  lands  confess  his  quick'ning  heat, 
And  all  he  cheers  are  fruitful,  fair,  and  sweet. 
Far  from  enjoying  what  these  scenes  disclose, 
I  Jeel  the  thorn,  alas  !  but  miss  the  rose ; 
Too  well  1  know  this  aching  heart  requires 
Wore  solid  good  to  fill  its  vast  desires; 
In  vain  they  represent  his  matchless  might, 
Who  call'd  them  out  of  deep  primaeval  night 
Their  form  arid  beauty  but  augment  my  woe: 
I  seek  the  giver  of  those  charms  and  show: 
Nor,  Him  beside,  throughout  the  world  he  made 
Lives  there,  in  whom  I  trust  for  cure  or  aid. 

Infinite  God,  thou  great  unrivall'd  ONE  ? 
Whose  glory  makes  a  blot  of  yonder  sun  ; 
Compaied  with  thine,  how  dim  his  beauty  seems, 
How  quench'd  the  radiance  of  his  golden  beams! 
Thou  art  my  bliss,  the  light  by  which  I  move; 
In  thee  alone  dwells  all  that  I  can  love ; 
All  darkness  flies  when  thou  art  pleased  t'  appear, 
A  sudden  spring  renews  the  fading  year ; 
Where'er  1  turn,  I  see  thy  pow'r  and  grace 
The  watchful  gaurdians  of  our  heedless  race? 
Thy  various  creatures  in  one  strain  agree. 


428 

All,  in  all  times  and  places,  speak  of  thee; 

Ev'n  I,  with  trembling  heart  and  stamm'ring  tongue. 

Attempt  thy  praise,  and  join  the  gen'ral  song. 

Almighty  Former  of  this  wondrous  plan, 
Faintly  ^reflected  in  thine  image,  Man- 
Holy  and  just— the  Greatness  of  whose  name 
Fills  and  supports  this  universal  frame, 
Diffused  throughout  th'  infinitude  of  space; 
\Vho  art  thyself  thine  own  vast  dwelling  place; 
Soul  of  our  soul,  whom  yet  no  sense  of  ours 
Discerns,  eluding  our  most  active  pow'rs  ; 
Encircling  shades  attend  thine  awful  throne, 
That  veil  thy  face,  and  keep  ihee  still  unknown  ; 
Unknown,  though  dwelling  in  our  inmost  part, 
Loid  of  the  thoughts,  and  Sov'reign  of  the  heart! 

Repeat  the  charming  truth,  that  never  tires, 
No  God  is  like  the  God  my  soul  desires; 
He  at  whose  voice  Heav'n  trembles,  even  He, 
Great  as  he  is,  knows  how  to  stoop  to  me— 
Lo!   there  he  lies — that  smiling  infant  said, 
"  Heav'n,  Earth,  and  Sea,  exist!"  -and  they  obey'd 
E'en  He,  whose  being  swells  beyond  the  skies, 
Is  born  of  wofiian,  lives,  and  mourns,  and  dies; 
Eternal  and  Immortal,  seems  to  cast 
That  glory  from  his  brow,  and  breathes  his  last. 
Trivial  and  vain  the  works  that  man  has  wrought, 
How  do  they  shrink,  and  vanish  at  the  thought! 

Sweet  Solitude,  and  scene  of  my  repose! 
This  rustic  sight  assuages  all  my  woes— 
That  crib  contains  the  Lord,  whom  I  ad(  re  ; 
And  Earth's  a  shade,  that  I  pursue  no  more. 
He  is  my  tirm  support,  my  rock,  my  tow'r, 
I  dwell  secure  beneath  his  shelt'ring  power, 
And  hold  this  mean  retreat  for  ever  dear, 
For  all  I  love,  my  soul's  delight,  is  here. 
I  see  th'  Almighty  swathed  in  infant  bands, 
Tied  helpless  down  the  Thunder-bearer's  hands! 
And,  in  this  shed,  that  mystery  discern, 
Which  faith  and  luve,  and  they  alone,  can  learn. 

Ye  tempests,  spure  -h-  slumbers  of  your  Lord  1 
Ye  zephyrs,  all  your  whisper'd  sweets  afford  ! 
Confess  the  God,  that  guiiies  the  rolling  year: 
Heav'n  to  him  homage  ;  and  thou,  Earth,  icverel 
Ye  shepherds,  monarchs,  sages,  hither  bring 
Y^ur  hearts  an  offring,  and  adore  your  King! 
Pure  be  those  hearts,  and  rich  in  faith  and  love; 
Join,  in  his  praise,  th'  harmonious  world  above; 
To  Beth'lem  haste,  rejoice  in  his  repose, 
And  praise  him  there  for  all  that  he  bestows  ' 


4-29 

Man,  busy  Man,  alas !  can  ill  afford 
T'  obey  the  summons,  and  attend  the  Lord ; 
Perverted  Reason  revels  and  runs  wild, 
By  glitt'ring  shows  of  pomp  and  wealth  beguiled  « 
Aii'l,  blind  to  genuine  excellence  and  grace, 
Finds  not  her  author  in  so  mean  a  place. 
Ye  unbelieving!    learn  a  wiser  part, 
Distrust  your  erring  sense,  and  search  your  heart; 
There,  soon  ye  shall  perceive  a  kindling  flame 
Glow  for  that  Infant  God,  from  whom  it  came; 
Resist  not,  quench  not,  that  divine  desire, 
Melt  all  your  adamant  in  heav'nly  tire  ! 

Not  so  will  J  requite  the<     gentle  Love! 
Yielding  an. I  soft  this  heart    :hall  ever  prove  : 
And  every  heart  beneath  thy  imwer  should  fall- 
Glad  t<>  submit,  could  mine  contain  them  all. 
But  I  am  poor,  oblation  I  have  none, 
None  for  a  Saviour,  but  Himself  alone: 
Whate'er  1  render  thee,  from  thee  it  came  ; 
An  i,  if  I  give  my  body  to  the  flame, 
My  patience,  love,  and  energy  divine 
Of  heart,  and  soul,  and  spirit,  all  are  thine. 
An,  vain  attempt,  t'  expu-ige  the  mighty  score!! 
'1  he  more  1  pay,  I  owe  thee  still  the  more. 

Upon  my  meanness,  poverty,  and  guilt, 
The  trophy  of  thy  glory  shall  be  built ; 
Mv  self-disdain  shall  be  th'  unshaken  base, 
Anil  my  deformity  its  fairest  grace; 
For  destitute  of  goo>i,  and  rich  in  ill, 
Must  be  my  state  and  my  description  still. 

And  do  I  grieve  at  such  an  humbling  lot? 
Nay,  but  1  cherish  and  enjoy  the  thought — 
Vain  pageantry  and  pump  of  Earth,  adieu  1 
I  have  no  wish,  no  memory  for  you ; 
The  more  I  feel  my  mis' ry,  1  adore 
The  sacred  Inmate  of  my  soul  the  more; 
Rich  in  his  love,  I  feel  my  noblest  pride 
Spring  from  the  sense  of  havii  g  nought  beside. 

In  th.-e  I  rind  wealth,  comfort,  virtue,  might 5 
My  waiid'rings  prove  thy  wisdom  infinite; 
All  that  I  have,  1  give  thee;  and  then  see 
All  contrarieties  unite  in  thee; 
For  thou  hast  join'd  them,  taking  up  our  woe, 
And  pouring  out  thy  bliss  on  worms  below, 
By  filling  with  thy  grace  and  love  divine 
A  gulf  of  evil  in  this  heart  of  mine. 
This,  is  indeed  to  bid  the  valleys  rise, 
An  1  the  hills  sink — 'tis  matching  Earth  and  Skies  I 
I  feel  my  weakness,  thank  thee,  and  deplore 


430 

An  aching  heart,  that  throbs  to  thank  thee  more; 
The  more  I  love  thee,  I  the  more  approve 
A  soul  so  lifeless,  and  so  slow  to  love ; 
Till,  on  a  deluge  of  thy  mercy  toss'd, 
I  plunge  into  that  sea,  and  there  am  lost. 


GOD  NEITHER  KNOWN  NOR  LOVED  BY  THE 

WORLD. 

Ye  Linnets,  let  us  try,  beneath  this  g"ove, 

Which  shall  be  loudest   in  our  Maker's  praise  1 

ID  quest  of  some  forlorn  retreat  I  rov'e, 

For  all  the  world  is  blind,  and  wanders  from  his  ways 

That  God  alone  should  prop  the  sinking  soul, 
Fills  them  with  rage  against  his  empire  now; 

J  traverse  Earth  in  vain  from  pole  to  pole, 

To  seek  one  simple  heart,  set  free  troai  all  below. 

They  speak  of  love,  yet  little  feel  its  sway, 
Wliile  in  their  bosoms  many  an  idol  lurks: 

Their  base  desires,  well  satisfied,  obey, 

Leave  the  Creator's  hand,  and  lean  upon  his  works. 

'Tis  therefore  I  can  dwell  with  man  no  more  ; 

Your  fellowship,  ye  warblers!  suits  me  best; 
Pure  love  has  lost  its  prize,  though  prized  of  yore. 

Profaned  by  modern  tongues,  and  slighted  as  a  jest. 

My  God,  who  form'd  you  for  his  praise  alone, 
Beholds  his  purpose  well  fulfilled  in  you  ; 

Come,  K't  us  join  the  choir  before  his  throne, 

Partaking  in  las  praise  with  spirits  just  and  true! 

Yes,  I  will  always  love  ;  and.,  as  I  ought, 

Tune  to  the  praise  of  love  my  ceaseless  voice; 

Preferring  Love  too  vast  for  human  thought, 
In  spite  of  erring  men  who  cavil  at  my  choice. 

Why  have  1  not  a  thousand  thousand  hearts, 
Lord  of  my  soul!  that  they  might  all  be  thine? 

If  thou  approve — the  /t-al  thy  smile  imparts, 

How  should  it  ever  fail  !  Can  such  a  tire  decline t 


431 

Love,  pure  and  holy,  is  a  deathless  fire ; 

ltsol)ject  heav'niy,  it  must  ever  blaze: 
Eternal  love  a  God  must  needs  inspire, 

When  once  he  wins  the  heart,  and  fits  it  for  his  praise 

Self-love  dismiss'd — 'tis  then  we  live  indeed — 
In  her  embrace,  death,  only  death  is  found  : 

Come  then,  one  noble  effort,  and  succeed, 

Cast  off  the  chain  of  Self  with  which  thy  soul  is  bound  ? 

Oh !    I  would  cry,  that  all  the  world  might  hear, 
Ye  self- tormentors,  love  your  God  alone; 

Let  his  unequall'd  excellence  be  dear, 

Dear  to  your  inmost  souls,  and  make  him  all  your  own  ! 

They  hear  me  not — alas  !  how  fond  to  rove 
In  endless  chase  of  Folly's  specious  lure  1 

'Tis  here  alone,  beneath  this  shady  grove, 

I  taste  the  sweets  of  Truth  —here  only  am  secure. 


THE  SWALLOW. 


1  am  fond  of  the  swallow — I  learn  from  her  flight, 
Had  I  skill  to  improve  it,  a  lessen  of  love  : 

How  seldom  on  earth  do  we  see  her  alight  1 
She  dwells  in  the  skies,  she  is  ever  above. 

It  is  on  the  wing  that  she  takes  her  repose, 
Suspended  and  poised  in  the  regions  of  air, 

'Tis  not  in  our  fields  that  her  sustenance  grows, 
It  is  wing'd  like  herself,  'tis  ethereal  fare. 

She  comes  in  the  spring,  all  the  summer  she  stays, 
And,  dreading  the  cold,  still  follows  the  sun — 

So,  true  to  our  Love,  we  should  covet  his  rays, 

And  the  place  where  he  shines  not,  immediately  shun 

Our  light  should  be  love,  and  our  nourishment  prayer, 
It  is  dangerous  food  that  we  find  upon  earth  ; 

The  f'ruu  of  this  world  is  besetwith  a  snare, 
in  itself  it  is  hurtful,  as  vile  in  its  birth 


432 

'T  is  rarely,  if  ever,  she  settles  "below, 

And  only  when  building  a  nest  for  her  young: 

Were  it  not  for  her  brood,  she  would  never  bestoi 
A  thought  upon  anything  filthy  as  dung. 

Let  us  leave  it  ourselves,  ('tis  a  mortal  abode), 
To  bask  ev'ry  moment  in  infinite  love; 

Let  us  fly  the  dark  winter,  and  follow  the  road. 
That  leads  to  the  day-spring  appearing  abo-"  - 


THE 
TRIUMPH    OP    HEAVENLY    LOVE 

Ah!  reign,  whatever  man  is  found, 
My  Spouse,  beloved  and  divine! 

Then  I  am  rich,  and  I  abound, 
When  ev'ry  human  heart  is  thin* 

A  thousand  sorrows  pierce  my  so"l. 
To  think  that  all  are  not  thine  - 

Ah  !   be  adored  from  pole  to  po'e  ; 
Where  is  thy  zeal  I  arise  ;  be 

All  hearts  are  cold,  in  ev'ry  place, 

Yet  earthly  good  with  warmth  pursue  I 

Dissolve  them  with  a  flash  ot  grace, 
Thaw  these  of  ice,  and  give  us  new ! 


A   FIGURATIVE    DESCRIPTION    OP 
THE    PROCEDURE    OF    DIVINE    LOVE. 

»Twas  my  purpose,  on  a  day, 

To  embark,  and  sail  away  : 

As  I  climbed  the  vessel's  side, 

Love  was  sporting  in  the  tide ; 

«  Come,"  he  said,—'4  ascend— make  haste, 

Launch  into  the  boundless  waste." 


431 

Many  mariners  were  there, 
Having  each  his  sep'rate  care  ; 
They  that  row'd  us,  held  their  eye» 
Fix'd  upon  the  starry  skies  ; 
Others  steer'd,  or  turn'd  the  sails 
To  receive  the  shifting  gales. 

Love,  with  pow'r  divine  supplied, 
Suddenly  my  courage  tried  ; 
In  a  moment  it  was  night, 
Ship  and  skies  were  out  of  sight; 
On  the  briny  wave  1  lay, 
Floating  rushes  all  my  stay. 

Did  I  with  resentment  burn 

At  this  unexpected  turn? 

Did  1  wish  myself  on  shore, 

Never  to  forsake  it  more  ? 

No—"  My  soul,"  1  cried,  "be  still | 

If  I  must  be  lost,  1  will." 

Next,  he  hasten'd  to  convey 
Both  my  frail  supports  away; 
feeiz'd  my  rushes ;  bade  the  waves 
Yawn  into  a  thousand  graves: 
Down  I  went,  and  sunk  as  lead, 
Ocean  closing  ^'er  my  head. 

Still,  however,  life  was  safe  : 

And  I  saw  him  turn  and  laugh ; 

"  Friend,"  he  cried,  "  adieu  !   lie  low, 

While  the  wintry  storms  shall  blow  ;^ 

When  the  spring  has  calrn'd  the  main, 

You  shall  rise  and  float  again." 

Soon  I  saw  him,  with  dismay, 
Spread  his  plumes  and  soar  away  ; 
Now  I  mark  his  rapid  flight; 
Now  he  leaves  my  aching  sight; 
He  is  gone  whom  1  adore, 
'Tis  in  vain  to  seek  him  more. 

• 

How  I  trembled  then  and  fear'd, 
When  my  love  had  disappear  d ! 
««  Wilt  thou  leave  me  thus,"    I  cried, 
"  Whelm'd  beneath  the  rolling  tide  f * 
2  P 


434 

Vain  attempt  to  reach  his  ear  ! 
Love  was  gone,  and  would  not  hear. 

Ah  !  return,  and  love  me  still  ; 

See  me  subject  to  thy  will  ; 

Frown  with  wrath,  or  smile  with  grace, 

Only  let  me  see  thy  face  1 

Evil  I  have  none  to  fear, 

All  is  good,  if  thou  art  near. 

Yet  he  leaves  me  —  cruel  fat?  ! 
Leaves  me  in  my  lost  est  te  — 
Have  I  sinn'd  1  O  say  wherein  ; 
Tell  me,  and  forgive  my  sin  ! 
King,  and  Lord,  whom  1  adore, 
Shall  I  see  thy  face  no  more  ? 

Be  not  angry  ;  I  resign, 
Henceforth,  all  my  will  to  thin*  , 
I  consent  that  thou  depart, 
Though  thine  absence  breaks 
Go  then,  and  for  ever  too  ; 
All  is  right  that  thou  wilt  do. 


This  was  just  what  Love 

He  was  now  no  more  offerdf-J  * 

Soon  as  I  became  a  child, 

Love  returned  to  m«  und  5iri''d  ' 

Never  strife  shall  more  b^'  de 

'T  wixt  the  Bridegroom  and  his  Bride. 


A    CHILD    OF  GOD    LONGING    TO    SEE    HIM    BELOVED 

There's  not  an  Echo  round  me, 

But  I  am  glad  should  learn, 
How  pure  a  fire  has  found  me,— 

The  love  with  which  1  burn. 
For  none  attends  with  pleasure, 

To  what  I  would  reveal ; 
They  slight  me  out  of  measure, 

An. I  laugh  at  all  I  feel. 


435 

The  rocks  receive  less  proudly 

The  story  of  my  flame: 
When  1  approach,  they  loudly 

Reverberate  his  name. 
I  speak  to  them  of  sadness, 

And  comforts  at  a  stand  ; 
They  bid  me  look  for  gladness, 

And  better  days  at  hand. 

Far  from  all  habitation, 

I  heard  a  happy  sound ; 
Big  with  the  consolation, 

That  i  have  often  found, 
I  said,  "  my  lot  is  sorrow, 

My  griei'  has  no  alloy  ;" 
The  rocks  replied — "  to-morrow^ 

To-morrow  brings  thee  joy." 

These  sweet  and  secret  tidings, 

What  bliss  it  is  to  hear! 
For,  spite  of  all  my  chiding, 

My  weakness  and  my  fear, 
No  sooner  I  receive  them, 

Than  I  forget  my  pain, 
And  happy  to  believe  them, 

I  love  as  much  again. 

1  fly  to  scenes  romantic, 
Where  never  men  resort; 

For  in  an  age  so  frantic, 
Impiety  is  sport. 

For  riot  and  confusion, 
They  barter  things  above; 

Condemning,  as  delusion, 
The  joy  of  perfect  love. 

In  this  sequester' d  corner, 

None  hears  what  I  express; 
Deliver'd  from  the  scorner, 

What  peace  do  I  possess! 
Beneath  the  boughs  reclining, 

Or  roving  o'er  the  wild, 
I  live,  as  undesigning, 

And  harmless  as  a  child. 

No  troubles  here  surprise  me, 
1  innocently  play, 


436 

While  Providence  supplies  me, 
And  guards  me  all  the  day  : 

My  dear  and  kind  Defender 
Preserves  me  safely  here, 

From  men  of  pomp  and  splendour, 
Who  fill  a  child  with  fear. 


ASPIRATION    OF    THE    SOUL    AFTER    GOD. 

My  Spouse !  in  whose  presence  I  live, 

Sole  object  of  all  my  desires, 
Who  know'st  what  a  flame  (  conceive, 

And  canst  easily  double  its  fires; 
How  pleasant  is  all  that  I  meet! 

From  fear  of  adversity  free, 
I  fiiid  even  sorrow  made  sweet ; 

Because  'tis  assigu'd  me  by  Thee, 

Transported  I  see  thee  display 

Thy  riches  and  glory  divine; 
I  have  only  my  life  to  repay, 

Take  what  1  would  gladly  resign. 
Thy  will  is  the  treasure  1  seek, 

For  thou  art  as  faithful  as  strong  ; 
There  let  me,  obedient  and  meek, 

Repose  myself  all  the  day  long. 

My  spirit  and  faculties  fail ; 

Oh  finish  what  love  has  begun ! 
Destroy  what  is  sinful  and  frail, 

And  dwell  in  the  soul  thou  hast  won  ? 
Dear  theme  of  my  wonder  and  praise, 

I  cry,  who  is  worthy  as  Thou! 
I  can  only  be  silent  and  gaze  ; 

'Tis  all  that  is  left  to  me  now. 

Oh  glory,  in  which  I  am  lost, 

Too  deep  for  the  plummet  of  thought; 
On  an  ocean  of  deity  toss'd, 

I  am  swallow'd,  1  sink  into  nought: 
Yet,  lost  and  absorb'd  as  I  seem, 

I  chdunt  to  the  praise  of  my  King; 
And  though  overwhelm'd  by  the  theuis, 

Am  happy  whenever  I  sing. 


43? 


GRATITUDE    AND    LOVE    TO 


All  are  indebted  much  to  Thee, 

But  I  far  move  than  all, 
From  many  a  deadly  snare  set  free, 

And  raised  from  many  a  fall. 
Overwhelm  me,  from  above, 
Daily  with  thy  boundless  Love. 

What  bonds  of  Gratitude  I  feel, 

No  language  can  declare  ; 
Beneath  th'oppressive  weight  I  reel, 

'Tis  more  than  I  can  bear: 
When  shall  I  that  blessing  prove, 
To  return  thee  Love,  for  Love  ? 

Spirit  of  Charity,  dispense 
Thy  grace  to  ev'ry  heart  ; 

Expel  all  other  Spirits  thence, 
Drive  self  from  ev'ry  part  ; 

Charity  divine,  draw  nigh, 

Break  the  chains  in  which  we  lie  ! 

All  selfish  souls,  whate'er  they  feign, 

Have  still  a  slavish  lot; 
They  boast  of  liberty  in  vain, 

Of  Love,  and  feel  it  not 
He  whose  bosom  glows  with  Thee, 
He,  and  he  alone,  is  free. 

Oh  blessedness,  all  bliss  above, 
When  thy  pure  fires  prevail, 

Love  only  teaches  what  is  Love  ; 
All  other  lessons  fail  ; 

We  learn  its  name,  but  not  its  pow'ro, 

Experience  only  makes  it  ours. 


2*2 


433 


HAPPY    SOLITUDE UNHAPPY    MEN. 

My  heart  is  easy,  and  my  burden  light: 

I  smile,  though  sad,  when  thou  art  in  my  sight; 

1  he  more  my  woes  in  secret  I  deplore, 

I  taste  thy  goodness,  and  1  love  tliee  more. 

There,  while  a  solemn  stillness  reigns  around, 
F;.ith,  Love,  and  Hope,  within  my  soul  abound! 
And,  while  the  world  suppose  me  lost  in  care, 
The  joys  of  angels,  unperceived,  1  share. 

Thy  creatures  wrong  thee,  O  thou  sov'reign  Good  ! 
Thou  art  not  loved,  because  not  understood  ; 
This  grieves  me  most,  that  vain  pursuits  beguile 
Ungrateful  men,  regardless  of  thy  smile. 

Frail  beauty,  and  false  honor,  are  adored  ; 
While  thee  they  scorn,  and  trifle  with  thy  word; 
Pass,  unconcern'd,  a  Saviour's  sorrows  by  ; 
And  hunt  their  ruin  with  a  zeal  to  die. 


LIVING  WATER. 

The  fountain  in  its  source, 
No  drought  of  summer  fears: 

The  farther  it  pursues  its  course, 
The  nobler  it  appears. 

But  shallow  cisterns  yield 

A  scanty,  short  supply  ; 
The  morning  sees  them  amply  fill'J, 

At  ev'ning  they  are  dry. 


439 


TRUTH  AND  DIVINE  LOVE  REJECTED    BY    THE   WORLD 

O  Love,  of  pure  and  heav'nly  birth  ! 
O  simple  Truth,  scarce  known  on  earth ! 
Whom  men  resist  with  stubborn  will; 
And,  more  perverse  and  daring  still, 
Smother  and  quench  with  reas'nings  vain, 
While  Error  and  deception  reign. 

Whence  comes  it,  that,  your  pow'r  the  same 
As  His  on  hijih,  from  whence  you  came, 
Ye  rarely  find  a  list'ning  ear, 
Or  heart  that  makes  you  welcome  here  ? 
Because  you  bring  reproach  and  pain, 
"Where'er  ye  visit,  in  your  train. 

The  world  is  proud,  and  cannot  bear 
The  scorn  and  calumny  ye  share; 
The  praise  of  men  the  mark  they  mean, 
They  fly  the  place  where  ye  are  seen  ; 
Pure  Love,  with  scandal  in  the  rear, 
Suits  not  the  vain :  it  costs  too  dear. 

Then,  let  the  price  be  what  it  may, 
Though  poor,  1  am  prepared  to  pay  ; 
Come  shame,  come  sorrow  ;  spite  of  tears, 
Weakness,  and  heart-oppressing  fears  ; 
One  soul,  at  least,  shall  not  repine, 
To  give  you  room  ;  come,  reign  in  mine  1 


DIVINE    JUSTICE    AMIABLE. 

Thou  hast  no  lightnings,  O  thou  Just! 

Or  I  their  force  should  know ; 
And,  if  thou  strike  me  into  dust, 

My  soul  approves  the  blow. 

The  heart,  that  values  less  its  ease, 

Than  it  adores  thy  ways, 
In  thine  avenging  anger  sees 

A  subject  of  its  praise. 


4*0 

Pleased  1  could  lie,  conceal'd  and  lost, 

In  shades  of  central  night ; 
Not  to  avoid  thy  wrath,  thou  know'st, 

But  lest  I   grieve  thy  sight. 

Smite  me,  O  thou  whom  I  provoke  ! 

And   I  will  love  thee  still  ; 
The  well  deserved,  and  righteous  stroke 

Shall  please  me,  though  it  kill. 

Am  I  not  worthy  to  sustain 
The  worst  thou  canst  devise  : 

And  dare  1  seek  thy  throne  again, 
And  meet  thy  sacred  eyes  i 

Far  from  afflicting,  thou  art  kind  ; 

And  in  my  saddest  hours, 
An  unction  of  thy  grace  I  find 

Pervading  all  my  pow'rs. 

Alas  1  thou  spar'st  me  yet  again ; 

And  when  thy  wrath  should  move, 
Too  gentle  to  endure  my  pain, 

Thou  sooth'st  me  with  thy  love. 

I  have  no  punishment  to  feafr: 
But  ah  !   that  smile  from  thee, 

Imparts  a  pang  far  more  severe, 
Thau  woe  itself  would  be. 


THE    SOUL    THAT    LOVES    GOD    FINDS    HIM 
EVERY    WHERE. 

Oh  thou,  by  long  experience  tried, 
Near  whom  no  grief  can  long  abide: 
My  love !  how  full  of  sweet  content 
I  pass  my  years  of  banishment ! 

All  scenes  alike  engaging  prove, 
To  souls  impress'd  with  sacred  love  1 
Where'er  they  dwell,  they  dwell  in  thee: 
In  heav'n,  in  earth  or  on  the  sea. 


441 

To  me  remains  nor  place  nor  time; 

My  country  is  in  ev'ry  clime; 
I  can  be  calm  and  free  from  care 
On  any  shore,  since  God  is  there 

While  place  we  seek,  or  place  we  shun, 
The  soul  finds  happiness  in  none  ; 
But  with  a  God  to  guide  our  way, 
'Tis  equal  joy  to  go  or  stay. 

Could  I  be  cast  where  thou  art  not, 
That  were  indeed  a  dreadful  lot: 
But  regions  none  remote  1  call, 
Secure  of  finding  God  in  all. 

My  country,  Lord,  art  thou  alone : 
Nor  other  can  I  claim  or  own  ; 
The  point  where  all  my  wishes  meet: 
My  Law,  my  Love  ;  lite's  only  sweet! 

I  hold  my  nothing  here  below  ; 

Appoint  my  journey,  and  1  go; 

Though  pierced  by  s<.orn,  oppress'd  by  pride, 

I  feel  thee  good — feel  nought  beside. 

No  frowns  of  men  can  hurtful  prove 
To  souls  on  fire  with  heav'nly  love  ; 
Though  men  and  devils  both  condemn, 
No  gloomy  days  arise  from  them. 

Ah  then  !  to  this  embrace  repair; 
My  soul,  thou  art  no  stranger  there ; 
There  love  divine  shall  be  thy  guard, 
And  peace  and  safety  thy  reward. 


THE    TESTIMONY    OF    DIVINE    ADOPTION. 

How  happy  are  the  new-born  race, 
Partakers  of  adopting  grace  : 

How  pure  the  bliss  they  share  ! 
Hid  from  the  world  and  all  its  eyes, 
Within  their  heart  the  blessing 

A  ud  conscience  feels  it  there. 


442 

The  moment  we  believe,  'tis  ours  j 
And  if  love  with  all  our  pow'rs 

The  God  from  whom  it  came, 
A.nd  if  we  serve  with  hearts  sincere, 
'Tis  still  discernible  and  clear, 

An  undisputed  claim. 

But  ah  !  if  foul  and  wilful  sin 
Stain  and  dishonor  us  within, 

Farewell  the  joy  we  knew  ; 
Again  the  slaves  of  Nature's  sway, 
J  i  lab'rinths  of  our  own  we  stray, 

Without  a  guide  or  clue. 

The  chaste  and  puro  who  fear  to  grieve 
The  gracious  Spirit  they  receive, 

His  work  distinctly  trace  ; 
And,  strong  in  undissembfmg  love, 
Boldly  assert  and  clearly  prove, 

Their  hearts  his  dwelling-place. 

Oh  messenger  of  dear  delight, 
Whose  voice  dispels  the  deepest  night, 

Sweet  peace-proclaiming  Dove ! 
With  the  at  hand  to  soothe  our  pains 
No  wish  unsatisfied  remains, 

No  task,  but  that  of  love. 

Tis  love  unites  what  sin  divides; 
The  centre  where  all  bliss  resides; 

To  which  the  soul  once  brought, 
Reclining  on  the  first  great  Cause, 
From  his  abounding  sweetness  draws 

Peace  passing  human  thought. 

Sorrow  foregoes  its  nature  there, 
And  life  assumes  a  tranquil  air, 

Divested  of  its  woes  ; 

There  sov'reign  goodness  soothes  the  breast, 
Till  then  incapable  of  rest, 

In  sacred  sure  repose. 


443 


DIVINE    LOVE    ENDURES    NO    RIVAL. 

LOVE  is  the  Lord  whom  I  obey, 
Whose  will  transported  1  perform  ; 

The  centre  of  my  rest,  my  stay, 

Love's  all  in  all  to  me,  myself  a  worm. 

For  uncreated  charms  I  burn, 

Oppress'd  by  slavish  fear  no  more: 

For  one,  in  whom  I  may  discern, 

Ev'n  when  he  frowns,  a  sweetness  I  adore. 

He  little  loves  Him,  who  complains, 
And  finds  him  rig'rous  and  severe  ; 

His  heart  is  sordid,  and  he  feigns, 

Though  loud  in  boasting  of  a  soul  sincere. 

Love  causes  grief,  but  'tis  to  move 
And  stimulate  the  slumb'ring  mind  ; 

And  he  has  never  tasted  Love, 

Who  shuns  a  pang  so  graciously  design'd. 

Sweet  is  the  cross,  above  all  sweets, 
To  souls  enamour'd  with  thy  smiles! 

The  keenest  woe  life  ever  meets, 

Love  strips  of  all  its  terrors,  and  beguiles. 

'Tis  just,  that  GOD  should  not  be  dear, 
Where  self  engrosses  all  the  thought, 

And  groans  and  murmurs  make  it  clear, 
Whatever  else  is  loved,  the  Lord  is  rot 

The  love  of  Thee  flows  just  as  much 
As  that  of  ebbing  self  subsides  ; 

Our  hearts — their  scantiness  is  snch»— 
Bear  not  the  conflict  of  two  r/val  tides. 

Both  cannot  govern  in  one  soul ; 

Then  let  self-love  be  disposscss'd  ; 
The  love  of  God  deserves  die  whole, 

And  will  not  dwell  witl>  so  despised  a  guest 


SELF-DIFFIDENCE. 

Source  of  love,  and  light  of  day, 
Tear  me  from  myself  away  ! 
Ev'ry  view  and  thought  of  mine, 
Cast  into  the  mould  of  thine 
Teach,  O  teach  this  faithless  heart, 
A  consistent  constant  part; 
Or,  it  it  must  live  to  grow 
More  rebellious,  break  it  now! 

Is  it  thus  that  I  requite 
Grace  and  goodness  infinite  ? 
Ev'ry  trace  of  ev'ry  boon 
Cancel!' d  and  erased  so  soon ! 
Can  1  grieve  thee,  whom  1  love ; 
Thee,  in  whom  J  live  and  move? 
If  my  sorrow  touch  thee  still, 
Save  me  from  so  great  an  ill ! 

Oh  !  th'  oppressive,  irksome  weight, 
Felt  in  an  uncertain  state ; 
Comfort,  peace,  and  rest,  adieu, 
Should  1  prove  at  last  untrue ! 
Still  1  choose  thee,  follow  still 
P^v'ry  notice  of  thy  will. 
But,  unstable,  strangely  weak, 
Still  let  slip  the  good  1  seek. 

Self-confiding  wretch,  I  thought, 
I  could  serve  thee  as  I  ought, 
Win  thee,  and  deserve  to  feel 
All  the  love  thou  canst  reveal  I 
Trusting  self,  a  bruised  reed, 
Is  to  be  deceived  indeed : 
Save  me  from  this  harm  and  loss, 
Lest  my  gold  turn  all  to  dross. 

Self  is  earthly — Faith  alone 
Makes  an  unseen  world  our  own  ; 
1-aith  relinquish'd,  how  we  roam, 
Feel  our  way,  and  leave  our  home ! 
Spurious  gems  our  hopes  entice, 
\Vhile  we  scorn  the  prarl  of  price  j 
And,  preferring  servants'  pay, 
Cast  the  children's  bread  av\a  . 


4*5 


THE  ACQUIESCENCE  OF  PURE  LOVE. 

Love  !  if  thy  destined  sacrifice  am  I, 

Come,  slay  thy  victim,  and  prepare  thy  fires  ; 

Plunged  in  thy  depths  of  mercy,  let  me  die 
The  death,  which  ev'ry  soul  that  lives  desires  I 

I  watch  my  hours,  and  see  them  fleet  away  ; 

The  time  is  long  that  I  have  languished  here; 
Yet  all  my  thoughts  thy  purposes  obey, 

With  no  reluctance,  cheerful  and  sincere. 

To  me  'tis  equal,  whether  Love  ordain 

My  life  or  death,  appoint  me  pain  or  ease; 

My  soul  perceives  no  real  ill  in  pain ; 
In  ease  or  health,  no  real  good  she  sees. 

One  good  she  covets,  and  that  good  alone  ; 

To  choose  thy  will,  from  selfish  bias  free; 
And  to  prefer  a  c  >ttage  to  a  throne, 

And  grief  to  comfort,  if  it  pleases  Thee. 

That  we  should  bear  the  cross,  is  thy  command; 

Die  to  the  world,  and  live  to  self  no  more; 
Sutfer,  unmoved,  beneath  the  rudest  hand, 

As  pleased  when  shipwreck'd,  as  when  safe  >n  shore. 


REPOSE  IN  GOD. 

Blest !  who,  far  from  all  mankind, 
This  world's  shadows  left  behind, 
Hears  from  heav'n  a  gentle  strain 
Whisp'ring  love,  and  loves  again. 

Blest  !  who,  free  from  self-esteem, 
Dives  into  the  Great  Supreme, 
All  desires  beside  discards, 
Joys  inferior  none  regards. 


446 

Blest !  who  in  thy  bosom  seeks 
lU  st  that  nothing  eartnly  breaks, 
Deau  to  self  and  worldly  things, 
Lost  in  thee,  thou  King  of  Kings  I 

Ye  that  know  my  secret  fire, 
Softly  speak  and  soon  retire  ; 
Favor  my  divine  repose, 
Sp;u-L>  the  sleep  a  God  bestows. 


GLORY  TO  GOD  ALONE. 

Oh  loved  !  but  not  enough— though  dearer  far 
Than  self  and  its  most  loved  enjoyments  are  ; 
None  duly  loves  thee,  but  who,  nobly  tree 
From  sensual  objects,  finds  his  all  in  thee. 

Glory  of  God  !  though  stranger  here  below, 
Whom  man  nor  knows,  nor  feels  a  wish  to  know  ; 
Our  Faith  and  Reason  are  both  shock'd  to  find 
Man  in  the  post  of  honor — Thee  behind. 

Reason  exclaims—"  Let  ev'ry  creature  fall. 
Ashamed,  abased,  before  the  Lord  of  all;" 
And  Faith,  o'erwhelm'd  with  such  a  dazzlin 
Feebly  describes  the  beauty  she  surveys. 

Yet  man,  dim-sighted  man,  and  rash  as  blind, 
Deaf  to  the  dictates  of  his  better  mind, 
In  frantic  competition  dares  the  skies, 
And  claims  precedence  of  the  Only-wise. 

Oh  lost  in  vanity,  till  once  self-known  1 
Nothing  is  great,  or  good,  but  God  alone  ; 
When  thou  shall  stand  before  his  awful  face, 
Then,  at  the  last,  thy  pride  shall  know  His  place. 

Glorious,  Almighty,  First,  and  without  end ! 
When  wilt  thou  melt  the  mountains,  ana  descend? 
When  will  thou  shoot  abroad  thy  conq'ring  rays, 
And  teach  these  atoms,  thou  hast  made,  thy  praise  < 


447 

Thv  Glory  is  the  sweetest  heav'n  I  feel; 
And,  if  I  seek  it  with  too  fierce  a  ze;<l, 
Thy  love,  triumphant  o'er  a  selfish  will, 
Taught  me  the  passion,  and  inspires  it  still. 

My  reason,  all  my  faculties,  unite, 
To  make  thy  Glory  their  supreme  delight  ; 
Forbid  it,  Fountain  of  my  brighter  days, 
That  1  should  rob  thee,  and  usurp  thy  praise  1 

My  soul  !  rest  happy  in  thy  low  estate, 
Nor  hope,  nor  wish,  tu  be  esteem'd  or  great; 
To  take  th'impression  of  a  will  divine, 
Be  that  thy  glory,  and  those  riches  thine. 

Confess  Him  righteous  in  his  just  decrees, 
Love  what  he  loves,  and  let  his  pleasure  please; 
Die  daily;  from  the  touch  of  sin  recede; 
Then  thou  hast  crown' d  him,  and  he  reigns  indeed. 


SELF-LOVE    AND    TRUTH    INCOMPATIBLE. 

From  thorny  wilds  a  monster  came, 
That  till'd  my  soul  with  fear  and  shame: 
The  birds,  forgetful  of  their  mirth, 
Droop'd  at  the  sight,  and  fell  to  earth; 
When  thus  a  sage  address'd  mine  ear, 
Himself  unconscious  of  a  fear: 

"  Whence  all  this  terror  and  surprise, 
Distracted  looks,  and  streaming  eyes? 
Far  from  the  world  and  its  affairs, 
The  joy  it  boasts,  the  pain  it  shares, 
Surrender,  without  guile  or  art, 
To  God,  an  undivided  heart ; 
The  savage  form,  so  fear'd  before, 
Shall  scare  your  trembling  soul  no  more ; 
For,  loathsome  as  the  sight  may  be, 
'Tis  but  the  Love  of  self  you  see. 
Fix  all  your  love  on  God  alone, 
Choose  but  His  will,  and  hate  your  own; 
No  fear  shall  in  your  path  be  found, 
The  dreary  waste  shall  bloom  around, 
And  you,  through  all  your  happy  days. 
Shall  bless  his  name,  and  sing  his  praise.' 


448 

Oh  lovely  solitude,  how  sweet 
The  silence  of  this  calm  retreat! 
Here  Truth,  the  fair  whom  1  pursue, 
Gives  all  her  beauty  to  my  view; 
The  simple,  unadorn'd  display, 
Charms  ev'ry  pain  and  tear  away. 
O  Truth,  whom  millions  proudly  slight; 
O  Truth,  my  treasuie  and  delight; 
Accept  this  tribute  to  thy  name, 
And  this  poor  heart,  from  which  it  came ! 


THE    LOVE    OF    GOD,    THE    END    OF    LIFE 

Since  life  in  sorrow  must  be  spent, 
So  be  it — I  am  well  content, 
And  meekly  wait  my  last  remove, 
Seeking  only  growth  in  Love. 

No  bliss  1  seek,  but  to  fulfil 
In  life,  in  death,  thy  lovely  will; 
No  succours  in  my  woes  1  want, 
Save  what  thou  art  pleased  to  grant 

Our  days  are  number'd,  let  us  spare 
Our  anxious  hearts  a  needless  care: 
'Tis  thine  to  number  out  our  days  ; 
Ours  to  give  them  to  thy  praise. 

Love  is  our  only  bus'ness  here, 
Love,  simple,  constant,  and  sincere; 
O  blessed  days,  thy  servant  seel 
Spent,  O  Lord  I  in  pleasing  Thee. 


449 


LOVE  FAITHFUL  IN  THE  ABSENCE   OF   TH6 

BELOVED. 

In  vain  ye  woo  me  to  your  harmless  joys, 
Ye  pleasant  bow'rs,  remote  from  strife  or  noise  ; 
Your  shades,  the  witnesses  of  many  a  vow, 
Breathed  forth  in  happier  days,  are  irksome  now  ; 
Denied  that  smile,  't  was  once  my  heav'n  to  see, 
Such  scenes,  such  pleasures,  are  all  past  with  me. 

In  vain  he  leaves  me,  I  shall  love  him  still  ; 
And,  though  I  mourn,  not  murmur  at  his  will ; 
I  have  no  cause — an  ohject  all  divine 
Might  well  grow  weary  of  a  soul  like  mine  : 
Yet  pity  me,  great  God!  forlorn,  alone, 
Heartless  and  hopeless,  Life  and  Love  all  gone. 


LOVE  PURE   AND  FERVENT. 

Jealous-,  and  with  love  o'erflowing, 
God  demands  a  fervent  heart ; 

Grace  and  bounty  still  bestowing, 
Calls  us  to  a  grateful  part. 

Oh,  then,  with  supreme  affection, 

His  paternal  Will  regard! 
If  it  costs  us  some  dejection, 

Ev'ry  sigh  has  its  reward. 

Perfect  Love  has  pow'r  to  soften 
Cares  that  miglu  our  peace  destroy, 

Nay,  does  more — transforms  them  often, 
Changing  sorrow  into  joy. 

Sov'reign  Love  appoints  the  measure, 
And  the  number  of  our  pains  ; 

And  is  pleased  when  we  find  pleasure 
In  the  trials  he  ordains. 


2  Q  2 


4-50 


THE  ENTIRE  SURRENDER. 

Peace  has  unveil'd  her  smiling  face, 
And  wooes  thy  soul  to  her  embrace; 
Enjoy'd  with  ease,  if  thou  refrain 
From  earthly  love,  else  sought  in  vain  ; 
She  dwells  with  all  who  Truth  prefer, 
But  seeks  not  them  who  seek  not  her. 

Yield  to  the  Lord,  with  simple  heart, 
Ail  that  thou  hast,  and  all  thou  art  ; 
Renounce  all  strength  but  strength  divine  f 
And  peace  shall  be  for  ever  thine : 
Benold  the  path  which  I  have  trod, 
My  path,  till  I  go  home  to  God. 


THE  PERFECT  SACRIFICE. 

I  place  an  offering  at  thy  shrine, 
From  taint  and  blemish  clear 

Simple  and  pare  in  its  design, 
Of  all  that  I  hold  dear. 

I  yield  thee  back  thy  gifts  again, 
Thy  gifts  which  most  I  prize; 

Desirous  only  to  retain 
The  notice  of  thine  eyes. 

But  if,  by  thine  adored  decree, 
That  blessing  is  denied  ; 

Resign'd,  and  unreluctant,  see 
My  ev'ry  wish  subside. 

Thy  will  in  all  things  I  approve, 

Exalted  or  cast  down  ! 
Thy  will  in  ev'ry  state  I  love, 

And  even  in  thy  frown. 


451 


GOD  HIDES  HIS  PEOPLE. 

To  lay  the  soul  that  loves  him  low, 

Becomes  the  Only-wise ; 
To  lude,  beneath  a  veil  of  woe, 

The  children  of  the  skies. 

Man,  though  a  worm,  would  yet  be  great, 
Though  feeble,  would  seem  strong ; 

Assumes  an  independent  state, 
By  sacrilege  and  wrong. 

Sti-.s:ige  the  reverse,  which,  once  abused, 
The  haughty  creature  proves! 

He  feels  his  soul  a  barren  waste, 
Nor  dares  affirm,  he  loves. 

Scorn'd  by  the  thoughtless  and  the  vain, 

To  God  he  presses  near  ; 
Superior  to  the  world's  disdain, 

And  happy  in  its  sneer. 

Oh  welcome,  in  his  heart  he  says, 

Humility  and  shame  ! 
Farewell  the  wish  for  human  praise, 

The  music  of  a  name  ! 

But  will  not  scandal  mar  the  good 

That  I  might  else  perform  ? 
And  can  God  work  it,  if  he  would, 

By  so  despised  a  worm  ? 

Ah,  vainly  anxious  ! — leave  the  Lord 

To  rule  thee,  and  dispose  ; 
Sweet  is  the  mandate  of  his  word, 

And  gracious  all  he  does. 

He  draws  from  human  littleness 

His  grandeur  and  renown  ; 
And  gen'rous  hearts  with  joy  confes* 

The  triumph  all  his  own. 


452 

Down  then  with  self-exalting  thoughts; 

Thy  faith  and  hope  employ, 
To  welcome  all  that  he  allots, 

And  suffer  shame  with  joy. 

No  longer,  then,  thou  wilt  encroach 

On  his  eternal  right ; 
A  nd  he  shall  smile  at  thy  approach, 
And  make  thee  his  delight. 


THE  SECRETS  OF  DIVINE  LOVE  ARE  TO 

BE  KEPT. 


Sun  !  stay  thy  course,  this  moment  stay- 
Suspend  th'  oY.    owing  tide  of  day, 
Divulge  not  s  ;ch  a  love  as  mine, 
Ah!   hide  the  mystery  divine. 
Lrst  man,  who  deems  my  glory  shame. 
Should  learn  the  secret  of  my  flame. 

O  night !  propitious  to  my  views,  . 
Thy  sable  awning  wide  diffuse  ; 
Conceal  alike  my  joy  and  pain, 
Nor  draw  thy  curtain  back  again, 
Though  morning,  by  the  tears  she  shows, 
Seems  to  participate  my  woes. 

Ye  stars !  whose  faint  and  feeble  fires 

Express  my  languishing  desires, 

Whose  slender  beams  pervade  the  skies 

As  silent  as  my  secret  sighs, 

Those  emanations  of  a  soul, 

That  darts  her  fires  beyond  the  Pole ; 

Your  rajs,  that  scarce  assist  the  sight, 
That  pierce,  but  not  displace  the  night, 
That  shine  indeed,  but  nothing  show 
Of  all  those  various  scenes  below, 
Bring  no  disturbance,  rather  prove 
Incentives  to  a  sacred  Love. 


45! 

Thou  Moon  !  whose  never-failing  course 

Bespeaks  a  providential  force, 

Go,  tell  the  tidings  of  my  flame 

To  him  who  calls  the  stars  by  name; 

Whose  absence  kills,  whose  presence  cheer*, 

"Who  blots,  or  brightens,  all  my  years. 

While,  in  the  blue  abyss  of  space, 
Thine  orb  performs  its  rapid  race ; 
Still  whisper  in  his  list'ning  ears 
The  language  of  my  sighs  and  tears ; 
Tell  him,  1  seek  him,  far  below, 
Lost  in  a  wilderness  of  woe. 

Ye  thought-composing,  silent  hours, 
Diffusing  peace  o'er  all  my  pow'rs ! 
Friends  of  the  pensive  !   who  conceal, 
In  darkest  shades,  the  flames  1  feel ; 
To  you  I  trust,  and  safely  may, 
The  love  that  wastes  my  strength  away. 

In  sylvan  scenes,  and  caverns  rude, 
1  taste  the  sweets  of  solitude  ; 
Retired  indeed,  but  not  alone, 
I  share  them  with  a  Spouse  unknown, 
Who  hides  me  here,  from' envious  eyes, 
From  all  intrusion  and  surprise. 

Imbow'ring  shades,  and  dens  profound! 
Where  echo  rolls  the  voice  around; 
Mountains  !  whose  elevated  heads 
A  moist  and  misty  veil  o'erspreads; 
Disclose  a  solitary  Bride 
To  him  I  love — to  none  beside. 

Ye  rills!  that,  murm'ring  all  the  way 
Among  the  polish'd  pebbles  stray  ; 
Creep  silently  along  the  ground, 
Lest,  drawn  by  that  harmonious  sound, 
Some  wand'rer,  whom  I  would  not  meet, 
Should  stumble  on  my  loved  retreat. 

Enamell'd  meads,  and  hillocks  green, 
And  streams,  that  water  all  the  scene! 
Ye  torrents,  loud  in  dk3tant  ears  ! 
Ye  fountains,  that  receive  my  tears ! 
Ah  I  still  conceal,  with  caution  due, 
A  charge,  I  trust  with  none  but  you. 


454 

If,  when  my  pain  and  grief  increase, 
I  seem  t'  enjoy  the  sweetest  peace, 
It  is  because  I  find  so  fair 
The  charming  object  of  my  care, 
That  I  can  sport  and  pleasure  make 
Of  torment  suffer 'd  for  his  sake. 

Ye  meads  and  groves,  unconscious  things ! 

Ye  know  not  whence  my  pleasure  springs  ; 

Ye  know  not,  and  he  cannot  know, 

The  scource  from  which  my  sorrows  flow  ; 

The  dear  sole  Cause  of  all  I  feel, — 

He  knows,  and  understands  them  well. 

Ye  deserts  !  where  the  wild  beast  roves, 
Scenes  sacred  to  my  hours  of  love  ; 
Ye  forests !   in  whose  shades  I  stray, 
Benighted  under  burning  day  ; 
Ah  !   whisper  not  how  blest  am  I, 
Nor  while  1  live  nor  when  I  die. 

Ye  lambs  !  who  sport  beneath  these  shades, 

And  bound  along  the  mossy  glades  ; 

Be  taught  a  salutary  fear, 

And  cease  to  bleat  when  I  am  near: 

The  wolf  may  hear  your  harmless  cry, 

Whom  ye  should  dread  as  much  as  I. 

How  calm,  amid  these  scenes,  my  mind  ! 

How  perfect  is  ihe  peace  I  find  ! 

Oh  hush!  be  still  my  ev'ry  part, 

My  tongue,  my  pulse,  my  beating  heart! 

That  love,  aspiring  to  its  cause, 

May  suffer  not  a  moment's  pause. 

Ye  swift-finn'd  nations,  that  abide 
In  seas  as  fathomless  as  wide  ; 
And,  unsuspicious  of  a  snare, 
Pursue  at  large  your  pleasures  there: 
Poor  sportive  fools !  how  soon  does  maa 
Your  heedless  ignorance  trepan! 

Away !   dive  deep  into  the  brine, 
Where  never  yet  sunk  plummet  line; 
Trust  me,  the  vast  leviathan 
Is  merciful,  compared  with  man  ; 
Avoid  his  arts,  forsake  the  beach, 
And  never  play  within  his  reach. 


455 

My  soul  her  bondage  ill  endures: 

I  pant  for  liberty  like  yours  ; 

I  long  for  that  immense  profound, 

That  knows  no  bottom,  and  no  bound  j 

Lost  in  infinity  to  prove 

Th' Incomprehensible  of  Love. 

Ye  birds  !  that  lessen  as  ye  fly, 
And  vanish  in  the  distant  sky  ; 
To  wli  Mil  yon  airy  waste  belongs, 
Res  ig  with  your  cheerful  songs  ; 

Haste  to  escape  from  human  sight ; 
Fear  less  the  vulture  and  the  kite. 

How  blest,  and  how  secure  am  I, 
When,  quitting  earth,  I  soar  on  high: 
\Vhen  lost,  like  you  I  disappear, 
And  float  in  a  sublimer  sphere! 
Whence  falling,  within  human  view, 
I  am  ensnared,  and  caught  like  you. 

Omniscient  God,  whose  notice  deigns 
To  try  the  heart  and  search  the  reins, 
Compassionate  the  num'rous  woes, 
I  dare  not,  e'en  to  tliee  disclose  ; 
Oh  save  me  from  the  cruel  hands 
Of  men  who  fear  not  thy  commands! 

Love,  all-subduing  and  divine, 
Care  for  a  creature  truly  thine  ; 
Reign  in  a  heart,  disposed  to  own 
No  sov'reign,  but  thyself  alone; 
Cherish  a  Bride,  who  cannot  rove, 
Nor  quit  thee  for  a  meaner  Love! 


455 


THE    VICISSITUDES    EXPERIENCED    IN    THB 
CHRISTIAN    LIFE. 

I  suffer  fruitless  anguish  day  by  day, 

Each  moment,  as  it  passes,  marks  my  pain; 

Scarce  knowing  whither,  doubtfully  1  stray, 
And  see  no  end  of  all  that  I  sustain. 

The  more  I  strive,  the  more  I  am  vriins,£ood ; 

Anxiety  increasing  ev'ry  hour, 
My  spirit  finds  no  rest,  performs  no  good, 

And  nought  remains  of  all  my  former  pow'r. 

My  peace  of  heart  is  fled,  I  know  not  where ; 

My  happy  hours,  like  shadows,  pass'd  away ; 
Their  sweet  remembrance  doubles  all  my  care, 
.    Night  darker  seems,  succeeding  such  a  day. 

Dear  faded  joys,  and  impotent  regret, 
What  profit  is  there  in  incessant  tears? 

O  thou,  whom,  Dnce  beheld,  we  ne'er  forget, 
Reveal  thy  love;  and  banish  all  my  fears ! 

Alas  I — he  flies  me — treats  me  as  his  foe, 

Views  not  my  sorrows,  hears  not  when  I  plead ; 

Woe  such  as  mine,  despised,  neglected  woe, 
Unless  it  shortens  life,  is  vain  indeed. 

Pierced  with  a  thousand  wounds,  I  yet  survive  ; 

My  pangs  are  keen,  but  no  complaint  transpire* 
And,  while  in  terror  of  thy  wrath  I  live, 

Hell  seems  to  lose  its  less  tremendous  fires. 

Has  hell  a  pain  I  would  not  gladly  bear, 
So  thy  severe  displeasure  might  subside? 

Hopeless  of  ease,  I  seem  already  there, 

My  life  extinguish'd,  and  yet  death  denied. 

Is  this  the  joy  so  promised — this  the  love, 

Th'  unchanging  love,  so  sworn  in  better  days  ? 

Ah  1  dang'rous  glorious!  shown  me,  but  to  prove 
How  lovely  thou,  and  I  how  rash  to  gaze. 


457 

Why  did  I  see  them  ?  had  I  still  remain'd 
Untaught,  still  ignorant  how  fair  thou  art, 

My  humbler  wishes  I  had  soon  obtam'd, 

Nor  known  the  torments  of  a  doubting  heart. 

Deprived  of  all,  yet  feeling  no  desires, 

Whence  then,  I  cry,  the  pangs  that  I  sustain? 

Dubious  and  uninfonn'd,  my  soul  inquires, 
Ought  she  to  cherish,  or  shake  off  her  pain. 

Suffring,  I  suffer  not — sincerely  love, 

Yet  feel  no  touch  of  that  enliv'ning  flame; 

As  chance  inclines  me,  unconcern'd  I  move, 
All  times,  and  all  events,  to  me  the  same. 

I  search  my  heart,  and  not  a  wish  is  there, 
But  burns  with  zeal  that  hated  self  may  fall ; 

Such  is  the  sad  disquietude  I  share, 

A  sea  of  doubts,  and  self  the  source  of  all. 

I  ask  not  life,  nor  do  I  wish  to  die  ; 

And,  if  thine  hand  accomplish  not  my  cure, 
I  would  not  purchase  with  a  single  sigh, 

A  free  discharge  from  all  that  I  endure. 

I  groan  in  chains,  yet  want  not  a  release : 

Am  sick,  and  know  not  the  distemper' d  part; 

Am  just  as  void  of  purpose,  as  of  peace ; 

Have  neither  pain,  nor  fear,  nor  hope,  nor  heart. 

My  claim  to  life,  though  sought  with  earnest  care, 
No  light  within  me,  or  without  me,  shows ; 

Once  I  had  faith  ;  but  now,  in  self-despair 
Find  my  chief  cordial,  and  my  best  repose. 

My  soul  is  a  forgotten  thing  ;  she  sinks, 
Sinks  and  is  lost,  without  a  wish  to  rise ; 

Feels  an  indhTrence  she  abhors,  and  thinks 
Her  name  erased  for  ever  from  the  skies. 

Language  affords  not  my  distress  a  name, — 
Yet  is  it  real,  and  no  sickly  dream  ; 

'Tis  Love  inflicts  it ;  though  to  feel  that  flame, 
Is  all  I  know  of  happiness  supreme. 

When  .Love  departs,  a  chaos  wide  and  vart, 
And  dark  as  hell,  is  cpen'd  in  the  soulj 

2a 


458 

When  Love  returns,  the  gloomy  scene  is  past, 
No  tempests  shake  her,  and  no  fears  control. 

Then  tell  me,  why  these  ages  of  delay  ? 

Oh  Love,  all-excellent,  once  more  appear; 
Disperse  the  shades,  and  snatch  me  into  day, 

.From  this  abyss  of  night,  these  floods  of  fear ! 

No — Love  is  angry,  will  not  now  endure 

A  sigh  of  mine,  or  suffer  a  complaint; 
He  smites  me,  wounds  me,  and  withholds  the  cure! 

Exhausts  my  pow'rs,  and  leaves  me  sick  and  faint. 

He  wounds,  and  hides  the  hand  that  gave  the  blow; 

lie  flies,  he  re-appears,  and  wounds  again — 
Was  ever  heart  that  loved  thee  treated  so? 

Yet  I  adore  thee,  though  it  seem  in  vain 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me,  whom,  when  lost  and  blind; 

Thou  didst  distinguish,  and  vouchsafe  to  choose, 
Before  thy  laws  were  written  in  my  mind, 

While  yet  the  world  had  all  my  thoughts  and  views  I 

Now  leave  me  ?  when,  enamour'd  of  thy  laws, 

I  make  thy  glory  my  supreme  delight ; 
Now  blot  me  from  thy  register,  and  cause 

A  faithful  soul  to  perish  from  thy  sight  ? 

What  can  have  caused  the  change  which  I  deplore  ! 

Is  it  to  prove  me,  if  my  heart  be  true  ! 
Permit  me  then,  while  prostrate  I  adore, 

To  draw,  and  place  its  picture  in  thy  view. 

'Tis  thine  without  reserve,  most  simply  thine  : 
So  given  to  thee,  that  it  is  not  my  own  ; 

A  willing  captive  of  thy  grace  divine  ; 

And  loves,  and  seeks  thee,  for  thyself  alone. 

Pain  cannot  move  it,  danger  cannot  scare  ; 

Pleasure  and  wealth,  in  its  esteem,  are  dust; 
It  loves  thee  e'en  when  least  inclined  to  spare 

Its  tend'rest  feelings,  and  avows  thee  just. 

'Tis  all  thine  own  ;  my  spirit  is  so  too, 

An  undivided  ofPring  at  thy  shrine  ! 
It  seeks  thy  glory  with  no  double  view, 

Thy  glory,  with  no  secret  bent  to  mine 


Love,  hd     1  ove !  and  art  thou  not  se  ere, 
To  slight  me,  tlius  devoted,  and  thus  fix'dl 

Mine  is  an  everlasting  ardour,  clear 

l-'rc.in  all  self-bias,  geu'rous  and  unmix'd. 

But  f  am  silent,  seeing  what  I  see — 

And  tear,  with  cause,  that  I  am  self-deceived: 

Not  e'en  my  faith  is  from  suspicion  free, 
And,  that  1  love,  seems  not  to  be  believed. 

Live  tli ou,  and  reign,  for  ever,  glorious  Lord  ! 

My  hist,  least  otTring,  1  present  thee  now — 
Renounce  me,  leave  me,  and  be  still  adored  ; 

May  me,  my  God,  and  I  applaud  the  blow. 


WATCHING  UNTO  GOD   IN  THE  NIGHT  SEASON 

Sleep  at  last  has  fled  these  eyes, 

Nor  do  I  regret  his  flight, 
More  alert  my  spirits  rise, 

And  my  heart  is  free  and  light. 

Nature  silent  all  around, 

Not  a  single  witness  near  ; 
God  as  soon  as  sought  is  found ; 

And  the  flame  of  love  burns  clear. 

Interruption,  all  day  long, 

Checks  the  current  of  my  joys  ; 
Creatures  press  me  with  a  throng, 

And  perplex  me  with  their  noise. 

Undisturb'd  I  muse  all  night, 

On  the  first  Eternal  Fair  ; 
Nothing  there  obstructs  delight, 

Love  is  renovated  there. 

Life  with  its  perpetual  stir, 

Proves  a  foe  to  Love  and  me 
Fresh  entanglements  occur — 

Conies  the  ivght,  and  sets  me  free 


460 

Never  more,  sweet  sleep,  suspend 

My  enjoyments,  always  new; 
Leave  me  to  possess  my  Friend ; 
Other  eyes  and  hearts  subdue. 

Hush  the  world  that  I  may  wake 
To  the  taste  of  pure  delights; 

Oh  the  pleasure  I  partake — 
God,  the  partner  of  my  night ! 

David,  for  the  self-same  cause, 
Night  preterr'd  to  busy  day; 

Hearts,  whom  heav'nly  beauty  draws, 
Wish  the  glaring  sun  away. 

Sleep,  self-lovers,  is  for  you — 
Souls  that  love  celestial  know, 

Fairer  scenes  by  night  can  view, 
Than  the  sun  could  ever  show. 


ON  THE  SAME. 


Season  of  my  purest  pleasure, 

Sealer  of  observing  eyes  ! 
When,  in  larger,  freer  measure, 

I  c<tn  commune  with  the  skies  ; 
While,  beneath  thy  shade  extended, 

\Veary  man  forgets  his  woes  ; 
I,  my  daily  trouble  ended, 

Find,  in  watching,  my  repose. 

Silence  all  around  prevailing, 

Nature  hush'd  in  slumber  sweet, 
No  rude  noise  mine  ears  assailing, 

Now  my  God  and  I  can  meet: 
Universal  nature  slumbers, 

And  my  soul  partakes  the  calm, 
Breathes  her  ardour  out  in  numbers, 

Plaintive  song  or  lofty  psalm. 


Now  my  passion,  pure  and  holy, 

Shines  and  burns,  without  restraint  I 
Which  the  day's  fatigue  and  folly 

Cause  to  lanqui.-h  dim  and  faint : 
Charming  hours  of  relaxation  ! 

How  I  dread  th'  ascending  sunl 
Surely,  idle  conversation 

Is  an  evil  match'd  by  none. 

Worldly  prate  and  babble  hurt  me; 

Unintelligible  prove; 
Neither  teach  me  nor  divert  me ; 

I  have  ears  for  none  but  love. 
Me,  they  rude  esteem,  an  1  foolish, 

Hearing  my  absurd  replies  ; 
I  have  neither  art's  fine  polish, 

Nor  the  knowledge  of  the  wise.  • 

Simple  souls  and  unpolluted, 

By  conversing  with  the  Great, 
Have  a  mind  and  taste,  ill  suited 

Tc  their  dignity  and  state; 
All  their  talking,  reading,  writing, 

Are  but  talents  misapplied  ; 
Infant's  prattle  I  delight  in, 

Nothing  human  choose  beside. 

'Tis  the  secret  fear  of  sinning 

Checks  my  tongue,  or  I  should  say, 
When  I  see  the  night  beginning, 

I  am  glad  of  parting  day  ; 
Love,  this  gentle  admonition 

Whispers  soft  within  my  breast? 
"  Choice  befits  not  thy  condition 

"  Acquiescence  suits  thee  best." 

Henceforth,  the  repose  and  pleasure 

Night  affjrds  me.  I  resign: 
And  *hy  will  shall  be  the  measure, 

Wisdom  infinite!   of  mine: 
Wishing  is  but  inclination 

Quarrelling  with  thy  decrees  ; 
Wayward  nature  finds  th'  occasion— 

'Tis  her  folly  and  disease. 

Night,  with  its  sublime  enjoyments, 

Now  no  longer  will  I  choose  ; 
Nor  the  day  with  its  employments, 
2  R  2 


Irksome  as  they  seem,  refuse  { 
Lessons  of  a  God's  inspiring, 

Neither  time  nor  place  impedes 
From  our  wishing  and  desiring, 

Our  unhappiness  proceeds. 


ON    THE    SAME. 

Night !  how  I  love  thy  silent  shades, 

My  spirits  they  compose  ; 
The  bliss  of  heav'n  my  soul  pervades, 

In  spite  of  all  my  woes. 

While  sleep  instils  her  poppy  dews 

In  ev'ry  slumb'ring  eye, 
I  watch  to  meditate  and  muse, 

In  blest  tranquillity. 

And  when  1  feel  a  God  immense 

Familiarly  impart, 
With  ev'ry  proof  he  can  dispense, 

His  favor  to  my  heart. 

My  native  meanness  I  lament, 
Though  most  divinely  fill'd 

With  all  th'  ineffable  content, 
That  Deity  can  yield. 

His  purpose  and  his  course  he  keeps ; 

Treads  all  my  reas'nings  down  ; 
Commands  me  out  of  nature's  deeps, 

And  hides  me  in  his  own. 

When  in  the  dust,  its  proper  place, 

Our  pride  of  heart  we  lay, 
'Tis  then,  a  deluge  of  his  grace 

Bears  all  our  sins  away. 

Thou,  whom  I  serve,  and  whose  I  am, 
Whose  influence  from  on  high 

Refines,  and  still  refines  my  flame, 
And  makes  my  fetters  fly. 

How  wretched  is  the, creature's  state, 
Who  thwarts  thy  gracious  pow'r  ; 

Crush'd  under  sin's  enormous  weight, 
Increasing  ev'ry  hour  ! 


463 

The  night,  when  pass'd  entire  with  tbee 

How  luminous  and  clear! 
Then  sleep  has  no  delights  for  me, 

Lest  Thou  shouldst  disappear. 

My  Saviour  !  occupy  me  still 

In  this  secure  recess  ; 
Let  Reason  slumber  if  she  will, 

My  joy  shall  not  be  less : 

Let  Reason  slumber  out  the  night  ; 

But  if  Tltuti  deign  to  make 
My  soul  th'abode  of  truth  and  light. 

Ah,  keep  my  heart  awake  1 


THE    JOY    OF    THE    CROSS. 

Long  plunged  in  sorrow,  I  resign 
My  soul  to  that  dear  hand  of  thine, 

Without  reserve  or  fear  ; 
That  hand  shall  wipe  my  streaming  tyet, 
Or  into  smiles  of  glad  surprise 

Transform  the  falling  tear. 

My  sole  possession  is  thy  love; 
In  earth  beneath,  or  heav'n  above, 

I  have  no  other  store  ; 
And,  though  with  fervent  suit  I  pray, 
And  importune  thee  night  and  day, 

I  ask  thee  nothing  more. 

My  rapid  hours  pursue  the  course 
Prescribed  them  by  love's  sweetest  force 

And  I,  thy  sov'reign  Will, 
Without  a  wish  t'escape  my  doom  ; 
Though  still  a  suff  rer  from  the  womb, 

And  doom'd  to  suffer  still. 

By  thy  command,  where'er  I  stray, 

Sorrow  attends  me  all  my  way, 
A  never- failing  friend  ; 

And  if  my  sutf  rings  may  augment 

Thy  praise,  behold  me  well  content- 
Let  sorrow  still  attend  ? 


It  costs  me  no  regret,  t'lat  she, 

Who  follow'cl  Christ,  should  follow  me. 

And  though,  where'er  she  goes, 
Thorns  spring  spontaneous  at  her  feet, 
1  love  her,  and  extract  a  sweet 

From  all  my  bitter  woes. 

Adieu!  ye  vain  delights  of  earth  ; 
Insipid  sports,  and  childish  mirth, 

I  taste*  no  sweets  in  you  ; 
Unknown  delights  are  in  the  Cross, 
All  joy  beside,  to  me  is  dross ; 

And  Jesus  thought  so  too. 

The  Cross  !  Oh  ravishment  and  bliss- 
How  grateful 'e'en  its  anguish  is; 

Its  bitterness,  how  sweet! 
There  ev'ry  sense,  and  all  the  mind 
In  all  her  faculties  refined, 

Tastes  happiness  complete. 


Souls  once  enibled  to  disdain 
Base  sublunary  joys,  maintain 

Their  dignity  secure  ; 
The  fever  of  desire  is  pass'd, 
And  Love  has  all  its  genuine  taste, 

Is  delicate  and  pure. 

Self-love  no  grace  in  sorrow  sees, 
Consults  her  own  peculiar  ease  ; 

'Tis  all  the  bliss  she  knows  ; 
But  nobler  aims  true  Love  employ  ; 
In  self-denial  is  her  joy, 

In  suff'ring,  her  repose. 

Sorrow,  and  Love,  go  side  by  side ; 
Nor  height,  nor  depth,  can  e'er  divide 

Their  heav'n-appointed  bands; 
Those  dear  associates  .still  are  one, 
Nor,  till  the  race  of  life  is  run, 

Disjoin  their  wedded  hands. 

J*>sus,  avenger  of  our  fall, 
Thou  faithful  lover  above  all, 

The  cross  has  ever  borne! 
Oh  tell  me, — life  is  in  thy  voice —  ^ 
How  much  afflictions  were  thy  choic-H, 

And  sloth  and  ease  thy  scorn  1 


465 

Thy  choice  and  mine  shall  be  the  same 
Inspirer  of  that  holy  flame, 

Which  must  for  ever  blaze! 
To  take  the  cross  and  follow  thee, 
Where  love  and  duty  lead,  shall  be 

My  portion  and  my  praise. 


JOY    IN    MARTYRDOM. 

Sweef  tenants  of  this  grove  ! 

Who  sing,  without  design, 
A  song  of  artless  love, 

In  unison  with  mine  : 
These  echoing  shades  return 

Full  many  a  note  of  ours, 
That  wise  ones  cannot  learn, 

With  all  their  boasted  pow'rt. 

O  thou  !  whose  sacred  charms 

These  hearts  so  seldom  love, 
Although  thy  beauty  warms 

And  blesses  all  above  ; 
How  slow  are  human  things 

To  choose  their  happiest  lot! 
All-glorious  King  of  kings, 

Say,  why  we  love  thee  not  ? 

This  heart,  that  cannot  rest, 

Shall  thine  for  ever  prove; 
Though  bleeding  and  distress'd, 

Yet  joyful  in  thy  love  : 
Tis  happy,  though  it  breaks 

Beneath  thy  chastening  hand  ; 
And  speechless,  yet  it  speaks 

What  thou  canst  understand. 


466 


SIMPLE    TRUST. 

StilJ,  still,  without  ceasing, 

I  feel  it  increasing, 
This  fervour  of  holy  desire; 

And  often  exclaim, 

Let  me  die  in  the  flame 
Of  a  love  that  can  never  expire  I 

Had  I  words  to  explain 

What  she  must  sustain, 
Who  dies  to  the  world  and  its  ways 

How  joy  and'affright, 

Distress  and  delight, 
Alternately  chequer  her  days  ; 

Thou,  sweetly  severe ! 

I  would  make  thee  appear, 
In  all  thou  art  pleased  to  award, 

Not  more  in  the  sweet, 

Than  the  bitter  I  meet, 
My  tender  and  merciful  Lord. 

This  faith  in  the  dark, 

Pursuing  its  mark 
Through  many  sharp  trials  of  love, 

Is  the  sorrowful  waste, 

That  is  to  be  pass'd 
In  the  way  to  the  Canaan  above. 


THE    NECESSITY    OF    SELF-ABASEMENT. 

Source  of  Love,  my  brighter  Sun, 
Thou  alone  my  comfort  art ; 

See,  my  race  is  almost  run ; 

Hast  thou  left  this  trembling  heart? 

In  my  youth,  thy  charming  eyes 
Drew  me  from  the  ways  of  men  5 

Then  I  drank  unmingled  joys  ; 
Frown  of  thine  saw  never  .then. 


467 

Spouse  of  Christ  was  then  my  namc| 

And  devoted  all  to  thee, 
Strangely  jealous  I  became — 

Jealous  of  this  self  in  me. 

Thee  to  love,  and  none  beside, 
Was  my  darling,  sole  employ; 

{Vhile  alternately  I  died, 
Now  of  grief,  and  now  of  joy. 

Through  the  dark  and  silent  night, 
On  thy  radiant  smiles  I  dwelt: 

And  to  see  the  dawning  light, 
Was  the  keenest  pain  1  felt. 

Thou  my  greatest  teacher  wert ! 

And  thine  eye,  so  close  applied, 
While  it  watch'd  thy  pupil's  heart, 

Seem'd  to  look  at  none  beside. 

Conscious  of  no  evil  drift, 

This,  1  cried,  is  Love  indeed — 

'Tis  the  Giver,  not  the  gift, 

Whence  the  joys  1  feel  proceed. 

But  soon  humbled,  and  laid  low, 
Stript  of  all  tliou  hast  conferr'd, 

Nothing  left  but  sin  and  woe, 
I  perceived  how  I  had  err'd. 

Oh,  the  vain  conceit  of  man, 
Dreaming  of  a  good  his  own, 

Arrogating  all  he  can, 

Though  the  Lord  is  good  alone  i 

He,  the  graces  Thou  hast  wrought, 
Makes  subservient  to  his  pride; 

Ignorant  that  one  such  thought 
Passes  all  his  sin  beside. 

Such  his  folly — proved,  at  last, 
By  the  loss  of  that  repose 

Self-complacence  cannot  uste, 
Only  Love  divine  bestows. 

'Tis  by  this  reproof  severe, 
And  by  this  reproof  alone, 

His  defects  at  last  appear, 

Man  is  to  himself  made  known. 


468 

Learn,  all  Earth  !  that  feeble  Man, 
Sprang  from  this  terrestial  clod, 

Nothing  is,  and  nothing  can  ; 
Life,  and  pow'r,  are  all  in  God. 


LOVE  INCREASED  BY  SUFFERING. 

"  I  love  the  Lord,"  is  still  the  strain 
This  heart  delights  to  sing  ; 

But  I  reply — your  thoughts  are  v.iin, 
Perhaps  'tis  no  such  thing. 

Before  the  pow'r  of  Love  divine, 

Creation  fades  away ! 
Till  only  God  is  seen  to  shine 

In  all  that  we  survey. 

In  gulfs  of  awful  night  we  find 

The  God  of  our  desires  ; 
'Tis  there  he  stamps  the  yielding  mind, 

And  doubles  all  its  fires. 

Flames  of  encircling  love  invest, 
And  pierce  it  sweetly  through  ; 

'Tis  fill'd  with  sacred  joy,  yet  press'd 
With  sacred  .sorrow  too. 

Ah  Love  !  my  heart  is  in  the  right — 

Amidst  a  thousand  woes. 
To  thee,  'tis  ever  new  delight, 

And  all  its  peace,  it  owes. 

Fresh  causes  of  distress  occur, 

Where'er  I  look  or  move  ; 
The  comforts,  I  to  all  prefer, 

Are  solitude  and  love. 

Nor  exile  I,  nor  prison  fear ; 

Love  makes  my  courage  great ; 
I  find  a  Saviour  ev'ry  where, 

His  grace  in  ev'ry  state. 

Nor  castle  walls,  nor  dungeons  deep, 
Exclude  his  quick' mug  beams; 

There  I  can  sit,  and  sing,  and  weep, 
And  dwell  0:1  heav'nly  theme*. 


469 

There,  sorrow,  for  his  sake,  is  found 

A  joy  beyond  compare  ; 
There,  no  presumptuous  thoughts  abound 

No  pride  can  enter  there. 

A  saviour  doubles  all  my  joys, 

And  sweetens  all  my  pains, 
His  strength  in  my  defence  employs, 

Consoles  me  and  sustains. 

I  fear  no  ill,  resent  no  wrong : 

Nor  feel  a  passion  move, 
When  malice  whets  her  sland'rous  tongue; 

Such  patience  is  in  Love. 


£CENES  FAVORABLE  TO  MEDITATION. 

Wilds  horrid  and  dark  with  o'ershadowing  trees, 

Rocks  that  ivy  and  briers  enfold, 
Scenes  nature  with  dread  and  astonishment  sees, 

But  1  with  a  pleasure  untold. 

Though  awfully  silent,  and  shaggy,  and  rude, 
I  am  cliarm'd  with  the  peace  ye  afford, 

Your  shades  are  a  temple  where  none  will  intrude, 
The  abode  of  my  Lover  and  Lord. 

1  am  sick  of  thy  splendor,  O  fountain  of  day, 

And  here  1  am  hid  from  its  beams, 
Here  safely  contemplate  a  brighter  display 

Of  the  noblest  and  holiest  of  themes. 

Ye  forests,  that  yield  me  my  sweetest  repose, 

Where  stillness  and  solitude  reign, 
To  you  1  securely  and  boldly  disclose 

The  dear  anguish  of  which  I  complain. 

Here,  sweetly  forgetting  and  wholly  forgot 
By  the  world  and  its  turbulent  throng, 

The  birds  and  the  streams  lend  me  mail/  a  nute 
That  aids  meditation  and  song. 
2  s 


47  C 

* 

Here,  wand'ring  in  scenes  that  are  sacred  to  uigtat, 

Love  wears  me  and  wastes  me  away, 
And  often  the  sun  has  spent  much  of  his  light, 

Ere  yet  I  perceive  it  is  day. 

While  a  mantle  of  darkness  envelopes  the  sphere, 

My  sorrows  are  sadly  rehearsed, 
To  me  the  dark  hours  are  all  equally  dear, 

And  the  last  is  as  sweet  as  the  first. 

Here  I  and  the  beasts  of  the  deserts  agree, 

Maakind  are  the  wolves  that  I  fear, 
They  grudge  me  my  natural  right  to  be  free, 

But  nobody  questions  it  here. 

Though  little  is  found  in  this  dreary  abode 

That  appetite  wishes  to  find, 
My  spirit  is  sooth'd  by  the  presence  of  God, 

And  appetite  wholly  resign'd. 

Ye  desolate  scenes,  to  your  solitude  led, 

My  lite  I  in  praises  employ, 
And  scarce  know  the  source  of  the  tears  that  I  shed, 

Proceed  they  from  sorrow  or  joy. 

There's  nothing  I  seem  to  have  skill  to  discern 

1  feel  out  my  way  in  the  dark, 
Love  reigns  in  my  bosoin,  I  constantly  burn, 

Yet  hardly  distinguish  the  spark. 

I  live,  yet  I  seem  to  myself  to  be  dead, 

Such  a  riddle  is  not  to  be  found, 
I  am  nourish'd  without  knowing  how  I  am  fed, 

I  have  nothing,  and  yet  I  abound. 

Oh  Love  !  who  in  darkness  art  pleased  to  abide, 

Though  dimly,  yet  surely  I  see, 
That  these  contrarieties  cmly  reside 

In  the  soul  that  is  chosen  of  thee. 

Ah  send  me  not  back  to  the  race  of  mankind, 

Perversely  by  folly  beguiled, 
For  where  i'i  the  crowds  I  have  left,  shall  I  find 

The  spirit  and  heart  of  a  child. 

Here  let  me,  though  fix'd  in  a  desert,  be  free  ; 

A  little  one  whom  they  despise, 
Though  lost  to  the  world,  if  in  union  with  the«, 

Shall  he  holy,  and  happy,  and  wise. 


471 


MINOR  POEMS. 


VERSES    WRITTEN    AT    BATH,    ON    FINDING    THE 
HEEL    OF    A    SHOE. 

Fortune!   I  thank  thee :  gentle  goddess!  thanks! 
Not  that  my  muse,  though  bashful,  shall  deny 
She  would  have  thank'd  thee  rather  hadst  thou  cast 
A  treasure  in  he~  way;   for  neither  meed 
Of  early  breakfast,  to  dispel  the    fumes, 
And  bowel-racking  pains  of  emptiness, 
Nor  noontide  feast,  nor  evening's  cool  repast, 
Hopes  she  from  this — presumptuous,  though,  perhaps 
The  cobbler,  leather-carving  artist!   might. 
Nathless  she  thanks  thee,  and  accepts  thy  boon, 
Whatever-;   not  as  erst  the  fabled  cock, 
Vain-glorious  fool !   unknowing  what  he  found, 
Spuru'd  the  rich  gem  thou  gavest  him.      Wherefore,  « 
Wny  not  on  me  that  favor,  (worthier  sure!) 
Conferr'dst  thou,  goddess!   Thou  an  blind,  thou  sayst 
Enough  ! — thy  blindness  shall  excuse  the  deed. 

Nor  does  my  muse  no  benefit  exhale 
From  tiiis  thy  scant  indulgence  1 — even  here 
Hints  worthy  sage  philosophy  are  found; 
Illustrious  hints,  to  moralize  my  song! 
This  ponderous  heel  of  perforated  hide 
Compact,  with  pegs  indented,  many  a  row, 
Haply  (for  such  its  massy  form  bespeaks) 
The  weighty  tread  of  some  rude  peasant  clow.i 
Upbore  ;  on  this  supported  ot't,  he  stretch'd, 
With  uncouth  strides,  along  the  furrovv'd  gle  > 
Flattening  the  stubborn  cloJ,  till  cruel  tune 
(What  will  not  cruel  time)  on  a  wry  step 
Severed  the  strict  cohesion  ;  when,  alas! 
He,  who  could  erst,  with  even,  equal  pace, 
Pursue  his  destined  way  with  symmetry, 
And  some  proportion  form'd,  now  on  one  side, 
Curtail  d  and  maim'd,  the  sport  of  vagrant  boys, 
Cursing  his  frail  supporter,  treacherous  prop, 
With  toilsome  steps,  and  difficult,  moves  on : 


472 

Thus  fares  it  oft  with  other  than  the  feet 

Of  humble  villager — the  statesman  thus, 

Dp  the  steep  road  where  proud  ambition  leads, 

Aspiring,  first,  uninterrupted  winds 

His  prosperous  way  ;  nor  tears  miscarriage  foul, 

\Vhile  policy  prevails,  and  friends  prove  true: 

But  that  support  soon  failing,  by  him  left, 

On  whom  he  most  depended,  barely  left, 

Betray'd,  deserted  ;  from  his  airy  height 

H-adlong  he  falls;  and  through  the  rest  of  life 

Drags  the  dull  load  of  disappointment  on. 


AN  ODE, 

ON    READING    RICHARDSON'S    HISTORY    OF    SIR    CHARLES 

GRAND1SON. 

Say,  ye  apostate  and  profane 
Wretches,  who  blush  not  to  disdain 

Allegiance  to  your  God, — 
Did  e'er  your  idly  wasted  love 
Of  virtue  for  her  sake  remove, 

And  lift  you  from  the  crowd  ? 

Would  you  the  race  of  glory  run  ; 
Know,  the  devout  and  they  alone, 

Are  equal  to  the  task : 
The  labours  of  the  illustrious  course 
Far  other  than  the  unaided  force 

Of  human  vigor  ask. 

To  arm  against  reputed  ill, 

The  patient  heart  too  brave  to  feel 

The  tortures  of  despair  : 
Nor  safer  yet  high-crested  pride, 
When  wealth  flows  in  with  ev'ry  tide 

To  gain  admittance  there. 

To  rescue  from  the  tyrant's  sword 

The  oppress'd  ; — unseen  and  unimplored, 

To  cheer  the  face  of  woe  ; 
From  lawless  insult  to  defend 
An  orphan's  right — a  fallen  friend, 

And  a  forgiven  foe  ; 


473 

These,  these  distinguish  from  the  crowd, 
And  these  alone,  the  great  and  j^ood, 

The  guardians  of  mankind  ; 
Whose  bosoms  with  these  virtues  heave, 
O,  with  what  matchless  speed  they  Iruve 

The  multitude  behind! 

Then  ask  ye,  from  what  cause  on  earth 
Virtues  like  these  derive  their  birth  : 

Derived  from  Heaven  alone  ; 
Full  on  that  favour'd  breast  they  shine, 
"Where  faith  and  resignation  join 

To  call  the  blessing  down. 

Such  is  that  heart : — but  while  the  muse 
Thy  theme,  O  Richardson,  pursues, 

Her  feeble  spirits  faint: 
She  cannot  reach,  and  would  not  wrong, 
That  subject  for  an  angel's  song, 

The  hero,  and  the  saint ! 


AN    EPISTLE    TO    ROBERT    LLOYD,    ESQ. 

'Tis  not  that  I  design  to  rob 
Thee  of  thy  birthright,  gentle  Bob,, 
For  thou  art  born  sole  heir,  and  single, 
Of  dear  Mat  Prior's  easy  jingle  ; 
Not  that  I  mean,  while  thus  I  knit 
My  threadbare  sentiments  together, 
To  show  my  genius  or  my  wit, 
Wlien  God  and  you  know  I  have  neither ; 
Or  such  as  might  be  better  shown 
By  letting  poetry  alone. 
'Tis  not  with  either  of  these  views 
That  I  presumed  to  address  the  muse  ; 
But  to  divert  a  fierce  banditti, 
(Sworn  foes  to  every  thing  that's  witty  !) 
That,  with  a  black,  infernal  train, 
M<ike  cruel  inroads  in  my  brain. 
And  daily  threaten  to  drive  thence 
My  little  garrison  offense; 
The  fierce  b  .niiitti  which  I  mean 
Are  gloomy  thoughts,  led  on  by  spleen. 
Then  there's  another  reason  yet, 
Which  is,  that  I  may  fairly  quit 
•2  s  2 


474 

The  debt,  which  justly  became  doe 
The  'iio'iieiit  vheti  I  heard  fro-u  you  : 
And  you  might  grumble,  cro  y  mine, 
If  pai  1  in  any  oth^r  coin  ; 
Since  twenty  sheets  ot  lea  1,  Ood  knows, 
(I  would  say  twenty  sheets  of  nrose) 
Can  ne'er  be  deem'd  wo  th  lialf  so  much 
As  one  of  gold,  and  vonr^  was  such. 
Thus,  the  preliminaries  settled, 
I  fairly  find  myself  pitehkettled, 
And  cannot  see,  though  few  see  better, 
How  I  shall  hammer  out  a  letter. 

First,  for  a  thought— since  all  agree — 
A  thought — I  have  it — let  me  see  — 
'Tis  gone  again — plague  on't !   I  thought 
I  had  it — hut  I  have  it  not. 
Dame  Gurton  thus,  and  Ho'lge  her  son, 
That  useful  thing,  her  needle,  gone! 
Rake  well  the  cinders,  sweep  the  floor, 
And  sift  the  dust  behind  the  door  ; 
While  eager  Hodge  beholds  the  pri/.e 
In  old  grimalkin's  glaring  eyes  ; 
And  gammer  finds  it  on  her  knees 
In  every  shining  straw  she  sees. 
This  simile  were  apt  enough  ; 
But  I've  another,  critic  proof, 
The  virtuoso  thus,  at  noon, 
Broiling  beneath  a  July  sun, 
The  gilded  butterfly  pursues, 
O'er  hedge  and  ditch,  through  gaps  and  mew  si 
And,  after  many  a  vain  essay, 
To  captivate  the  templing  prey, 
Gives  him  at  length  the  lucky  pat, 
And  has  him  safe  beneath  his  hat: 
Then  lifts  it  gently  from  the  ground  ; 
But  ah  !   'tis  lost  as  soon  as  found  : 
Culprit  his  liberty  regains, 
Flitsout  of  sight,  and  mocks  his  pains. 
The  sense  was  dark  ;  'twas  therefore  tit 
With  simile  to  illustrate  it ; 
But  as  too  much  obscures  the  sight, 
As  often  as  too  little  light, 
We  have  our  similes  cut  short, 
For  matters  of  more  grave  import. 
That  Matthew's  numbers  run  with  ease, 
Each  man  of  common  sense  agrees ! 
All  men  of  common  sense  allov 
That  Robert's  lines  are  easy  too: 
Where  then  the  preference  shall  we  place, 


475 

Or  how  do  justice  in  this  case1  ? 

Matthew  (says  Fame)  with  endless  pnins 

SmooMi'd  and  refined  the  meane-t  strains; 

Nor  sutfer'd  (-me  ill  chosen  rhyme 

To  escape  him  at  the  idK-st  time; 

And  th  is  o'er  all  a  lustre  cast, 

Tint,  while  the  language  lives,  sha1!  last 

An't  pleast  your  ladysh  p  f  quoth  Ij, 

For  'tis  my  business  to  reply  ; 

Su  e  so  much  1  hour,  so  much  toil, 

Bespeak  at  least  a  stubborn  snjl  : 

Thei'S  \ie  the  lain  el -wreath  decreed, 

"Who  both  write  well,  an  I  write  full  speed; 

Who  throw  their  Helicon  about 

As  freely  as  a  conduit  spout ! 

Friend  Robert,  thus  like  chien  scavant, 

Lets  fall  a  poem  en  passant, 

Nor  needs  his  genuine  ore  refine  ! 

'Tis  ready  polish'd  from  the  mine. 


A    TALE    FOUNDED    ON    A    FACT, 

WHICH    HAPPENED    IN   JANUARY,    1799. 

Where  Humher  pours  his  rich  commercial  stream, 
There  dwelt  a  wretch,  who  hreath'd  but  to  blaspheme; 
In  subterraneous  caves  his  life  he  led, 
Black  as  the  mine  in  which  he  wrought  for  bread. 
When  on  a  day,  emerging  from  the  deep, 
A  sabbath-day,  (such  sibhaths,  thousands  keep!, 
The  wages  of  his  weekly  toil  he  bore 
To  buy  a  cock — whose  blood  might  win  him  more  ; 
As  if  the  noblest  of  the  feaiher'd  kind 
Were  but  for  battle  and  for  death  design'd; 
As  if  the  consecrated  hours  were  meant 
For  sport,  to  minds  on  cruelty  intent; 
Itcha  iced  (such  chances  Provi  ience  obey) 
He  met  a  fellow-labourer  on  the  way, 
Whose  heart  the  same  desires  had  once  inflamed 
B  it  now  the  savage  temper  was  reclaim'd, 
Persuasion  on  his  lips  had  taken  place ; 
Far  all  plead  well  who  plead  the  cause  of  grace. 
His  iron  heart  with  scripture  he  assail'd, 
Woo'd  him  to  hear  a  sermon,  and  pvevail'd. 
His  faithful  bow  the  mighty  preacher  drew, 
Swift  as  the  light'uing-glirapse  the  arrow  flew. 


476 

F»e  wept;  he  trembled  ;  cast  his  eyes  around, 

To  find  a  woise  than  he  ;  but  none  he  found. 

He  felt  his  sins,  and  wonder'd  he  should  feel. 

Grace  made  thv  wound,  and  grace  alone  could  heal. 
Now  farewell  o  tlis.  and  hlasDhemies.  and  lies! 

He  quits  the  sinner's  for  the  martyrs  prize. 

That  holy  day  was  wash'd  with  many  a  tear, 

Gilded  with  hope,  yet  shaded  too  by  fear. 

The  next,  his  swarthy  brethren  of  th^  min,« 

Learn'd.  by  his  alter'd  speech,  the  change  divine ! 

Laugh'J  when  they  should  have  wept,  and  swore  the  day 

Was  nigh  when  he  would  swear  as  fast  as  they. 

'No.'  said  the  penitent,  'such  words  sh;ill  share 
This  breath  no  more  ;  devoted  now  to  prayer. 
O  !   if  Thou  seest,( thine  eye  the  future  sees) 
That  I  shall  yet  again  blaspheme,  like  these ; 
Now  strike  me  to  the  ground  on  which  I  kneel, 
Ere  yet  this  heart  relapses  into  steel : 
Now  take  me  to  that  Heav'n  I  once  defied, 
Thy  presence,  thy  embrace!' — He  spoke,  and  died! 


TO    THE    REV.     MR.    NEWTON,    ON    HIS    RETURN    FROM 

RAMSGATE. 

That  ocean  you  have  late  survey'd, 

Those  rocks  I  too  have  seen, 
But  I  afflicted  and  dismay'd, 

You  tranquil  and  serene. 

Yon  from  the  flood-controlling  steep 

Saw  stretch'd  before  your  view, 
With  conscious  joy,  the  threatening  deep, 

No  longer  such  too  you. 

To  me  the  waves,  that  ceaseless  broke 

Upon  the  dangerous  coast, 
Hoarsely  and  ominously  spoke 

Of  all  my  treasure  lost. 

Your  sea  of  troubles  you  have  past, 

And  found  the  peaceful  shore  ; 
I,  tempest-toss' d,  and  wreck'd  at  last, 

Come  home  to  port  no  more. 
Oct.  1780. 


477 


tOVE    ABUSED. 

What  is  there  in  the  vale  of  life 
Half  so  delightful  as  a  wife, 
When  friendship,  love,  and  peace  combina 
To  stamp  the  marriage-bond  divine? 
The  stream  of  pure  and  genuine  love 
Derives  its  current  from  ahove  ; 
And  Earth  a  second  Eden  shows, 
"Where'er  the  healing  water  flows: 
But  ah,  if  from  the  dykes  and  drains 
Of  sensual  nature's  feverish  veins, 
Lust,  like  a  lawless,  headstrong  flood, 
Impregnated  with  ooze  and  mud, 
Descending  fast  on  every  side, 
Once  mingles  with  the  sacred  tide, 
Farewell  the  soul-enlivening  scene! 
The  b'inks  that  wore  a  smiling  green, 
With  rank  defilement  overspread, 
Bewail  their  flowery  beauties  dead. 
The  stream  polluted,  dark,  and  dull, 
Diffused  into  a  Stygian  pool, 
Through  life's  last  melancholy  years 
Is  fed  with  ever-flowing  tears: 

Complaints  supply  the  zeyphyr's  part, 
And  sighs  that  heave  a  breaking  heart. 


THE  COLUBRIAD. 

Close  by  the  threshold  of  a  door  nail'd  fast 
Three  kittens  sat;  each  kitten  look'd  aghast 
I,  passing  swift  and  inattentive  by, 
At  the  three  kittens  cast  a  careless  eye ; 
Not  much  concern'd  to  know  what  they  did  there; 
Not  deeming  kittens  worth  a  poet's  care. 
But  presently  a  loud  and  furious  hiss 
Caused  me  to  stop,  and  to  exclaim,  '  What's  this?' 
When  lo !  upon  the  threshold  met  my  view, 
With  head  erect,  and  eyes  of  fiery  hue, 
A  viper,  long  as  Count  de  Grasse's  queue. 
Forth  from  his  head  his  forked  tongue  lie  throws, 
.Darting  it  i'ull  against  a  kitten's  nose ; 


478 

Who  having  never  seen,  in  field  or  house, 

The  like,  sat  still  and  silent  as  a  mouse ; 

Onlv  projecting,  with  attention  due, 

Her  whisker' d  face,  she  ask'd  him,  'Who  are  you? 

On  to  the  hall  went  I,  with  pace  not  slow, 

But  swift  as  lightning,  fora  long  Dutch  hoe: 

With  which  well-arm'd  I  hasten'd  to  the  spot, 

To  find  the  viper,  but  I  found  him  not, 

Anil  turning  up  the  leaves  and  shruhs  around, 

Found  only  that  he  was  not  to  he  found. 

But  still  the  kittens,  sitting  as  before, 

Sat  watching  close  the  bottom  of  the  door. 

•  I  hope.'  said  I,  '-the  villain  I  would  kill 

H  is  slipped  between  the  door  and  the  door-sill;. 

And  if  1  make  dispatch,  and  follow  hard, 

No  doubt  but  I  shall  find  him  in  the  yard  :' 

For  long  ere  now  it  should  have  been  rehearsed, 

'T  was  in  the  garden  that  I  found  him  first. 

E'en  there  I  found  him,  there  the  fill-grown  cat 

His  head,  with  velvet  paw,  did  gently  pat; 

As  Gur'-v.s  as  the  kittens  erst  had  been 

To  learn  what  this  phenomenon  might  mean. 

Fill'd  with  heroic  ardour  at  the  sight, 

And  fearinor  every  moment  he  would  bite 

And  rob  our  household  of  our  only  cat 

That  was  of  age  to  combat  with  a  rat  ; 

With  outstretch'd  hoe  I  slew  him  at  the  door, 

And  tauo-ht  him  NEVER  TO  COME  THERE  NO  MORE 


1782. 


VEttSES    SELECTED    FROM    AN    OCCASIONAL    POEM 
ENTITLED    VALEDICTION. 

Oh  Friendship!  cordial  of  the  human  breast! 
So  little  felt,  so  fervently  profess'd  ! 
Thy  blossoms  deck  our  unsuspecting  years  ; 
The  promise  of  delicious  fruit  appears: 
We  hug  the  hopes  of  constancy  and  truth, 
Such  is  the  folly  of  our  dreaming  youth  ; 
But  soon,  alas!   detect  the  rash  mistake 
That  sanguine  inexperience  loves  to  make  ; 
And  view  with  tear-s  the  expected  harvest  lost, 
Decay'd  by  time,  or  wither'd  by  a  frost. 
Whoever  undertakes  a  friend's  great  part 
Should  be  renew'd  in  nature,  pure  in  heart, 
Prepar'd  for  martyrdom,  and  strong  to  prove 


479 

A  thousand  ways  the  force  of  genuine  love. 
He  may  be  call'd  to  give  up  health  and  gain. 
To  exchange  content  for  trouble,  t-ase  for  pain, 
To  echo  sigh  for  sigh,  and  groan  for  groan, 
And  wet  his  cheeks  with  sorrows  not.  his  own. 
The  heart  of  man,  for  such  a  task  too  frail, 
"When  most  relied  on  is  most  sure  to  fail  ; 
And,  summon'd  to  partake  its  fellow's  woe, 
Starts  from  its  office  like  a  broken  bow. 

Votaries  of  business  and  of  pleasure  prove 
Faithless  alike  in  friendship  ai.d  in  love. 
Retir'd  from  all  the  circles  of  the  gay, 
And  all  the  crowds  that  bustle  life  away, 
To  scenes  where  competition,  envy,  strife, 
Beget  no  thunder-clouds  to  trouble  life, 
Let  me,  the  charge  of  some  good  angel,  find 
One  who  has  known,  and  has  escaped  mankind  ; 
Polite,  yet  virtuous,  who  has  brought  away 
The  manners,  not  the  morals,  of  the  day: 
With  him,  perhaps  with  her  (for  men  have  known 
No  firmer  friend>hips  than  the  fair  n*ave  shown), 
Let  me  enjoy,  in  some  unthought-of  spot, 
All  former  friends  forgiven,  and  forgot, 
Down  to  the  close  of  life's  fast-fading  scene, 
Union  of  hearts  without  a  flaw  between. 
'Tis  grace,  'tis  bounty,  and  it  calls  for  praise, 
If  God  give  health,  that  sunshine  of  our  days  ! 
And  if  he  add,  a  blessing  shared  by  few, 
Content  of  heart,  more  praises  still  are  due — 
But  if  he  grant  a  friend,  that  boon  possess'd 
Indeed  is  treasure,  and  crowns  all  the  rest; 
And  giving  one,  whose  heart  is  in  the  skies, 
Born  from  above  and  made  divinely  wise, 
He  gives,  what  bankrupt  nature  never  can, 
Whose  noblest  coin  is  light  and  brittle  man, 
Gold,  purer  far  than  Ophir  ever  knew, 
A  soul,  an  image  of  himself,  and  therefore  true. 
Nov.  1783. 


480 


LINES    COMPOSED    FOR    A    MEMORIAL    OP 
ASHLEY    COWPER    ESQ. 

IMMEDIATELY    AFTER    HIS  DEATH,    BY  HIS    NEPHEW    WILtiAM 

OF    WESTON. 

Farewell !  endued  with  all  that  could  engage 
All  hearts  to  love  thee,  both  in  youth  and  age! 
In  prime  of  life,  for  sprightliness  enrol  I'd 
Among  the  gay,  yet  virtuous  as  the  old ; 

In  life's  last  stage,  (O  blessings  rarely  found !) 
Pleasant  as  youth  with  all  its  blossoms  crown'd  ; 
Through  every  period  of  this  changeful  state 
Unchanged  thyself — wise,  good,  affectionate  ! 

Marble  may  flatter,  and  lest  this  should  seem 
O'ercharged  with  praises  on  so  dear  a  theme, 
Although  thy  worth  be  more  than  half  supprest 
Love  shall  be  satisfied,  and  veil  the  rest. 
June,  1788. 


ON  THE  QUEEN'S  VISIT  TO  LONDON, 
THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  OF  MARCH,  1789 

When,  long  sequester'd  from  his  throne, 

George  took  his  seat  again, 
By  right  of  worth,  not  blood  alone, 

Entitled  here  to  reign. 

Then  loyalty,  with  all  his  lamps 

New  trimm'd,  a  gallant  show! 

Chasing  the  darkness  and  the  damps, 
Set  London  in  a  glow. 

•T  was  hard  to  tell,  of  streets  or  squares, 
Which  form'd  the  chief  display, 

These  most  resembl;ng  cluster*  d  stars, 
Those  the  long  milky  way. 


481 

Bright  shone  the  roofs,  the  domes,  the  spire% 
And  rockets  flew,  self-driven, 

To  hang  their  momentary  tires 

Amid  the  vault  of  heaven. 

So  fire  with  water  to  compare, 

The  ocean  serves,  on  high 
Up-spouted  by  a  whale  in  air, 

To  express  unwieldy  joy. 

Had  all  the  pageants  of  the  world 

In  one  procession  join'd, 
And  all  the  banners  been  unfurl'd 

That  heralds  e'er  design'd, 

For  no  such  sight  had  England's  Queen 

Forsaken  her  retreat, 
Where  George,  recover'd,  made  a  scene 

Sweet  always,  doubly  sweet. 

Yet  glad  she  came  that  night  to  prove, 

A  witness  undescried, 
How  much  the  object  of  her  love 

Was  lov'd  by  all  beside. 

Darkness  the  skies  had  mantled  o'er 

In  aid  of  her  design 

Darkness,  O  Queen  !   ne'er  call'd  before 

To  veil  a  deed  of  thine  ! 

On  borrow'd  wheels  away  she  flies, 

llesolv'd  to  be  unknown, 
And  gratify  no  curious  eyes 

That  night  except  her  own. 

Arrived,  a  night  like  noon  she  sees. 
And  hears  the  million  hum; 

As  all  by  instinct,  like  the  bees, 

Had  known  their  sovereign  come 

Pleased  she  beheld  aloft  pourtray'd, 

On  many  a  splendid  wall, 
Emblems  of  health  and  heavenly  aid, 

And  George  the  theme  of  alL 

Unlike  the  enigmatic  line, 

So  difficult  to  spell, 
Which  shook  Belshazzar  at  his  wine 

The  night  his  city  fell. 


2  T 


482 

Soon  wat'ry  grew  her  eyes  and  dim, 

But  with  a  joyful  tear, 
None  else,  except  in  prayer  for  him, 

George  ever  drew  from  her. 

It  was  a  scene  in  every  part 

Like  those  in  fable  feign'd, 

And  seem'd  by  some  magician's  art 
Created  and  sustain'd. 

But  other  magic  there,  she  knew, 

Had  been  exerted  none, 
To  raise  such  wonders  in  her  view, 

Saye  love  of  George  alone. 

That  cordial  thought  her  spirit  cheer'd, 

And  through  the  cuntb'rous  throng 

Not  else  unworthy  to  be  fear'd, 
Convey'd  her  calm  along. 

So,  ancient  poets  say,  serene 

The  sea-maid  rides  the  waves, 

And  fearless  of  the  billowy  scene 
Her  peaceful  bosom  laves. 

With  more  than  astronomic  eyes 

She  view'd  the  sparkling  show; 

One  Georgian  star  adorns  the  skies, 
She  myriads  found  below. 

Yet  let  Mie  glories  of  a  night 

Like  that,  once  seen,  suffice, 

Heav'n  grant  us  no  such  future  sight 
Such  previous  woe  the  price  1 


TO    MRS.    THROCKMORTON, 

ON    HER    BEAUTIFUL    TRANSCRIPT    OF    HORACE'S    ODE, 
*AD    LIBRUM    SUUM.' 

Maria,  could  Horace  have  guess'd 

What  honor  awaited  his  ode 
To  his  own  little  volume  address'd, 

The  honor  which  you  have  bestow'd  ; 


Who  have  traced  it  in  characters  here, 

So  elegant,  even,  and  neat, 
He  had  laughed  at  the  critical  sneer 

Which  he  seems  to  have  trembled  to  meet 

And  sneer,  if  you  please,  he  had  said, 

A  nymph  shall  hereafter  arise 
Who  shall  give  me,  when  you  all  are  dead, 

The  glory  your  malice  denies; 
Shall  dignity  give  to  my  lay, 

Although  but  a  mere  bagatelle; 
And  even  a  poet  shall  say, 

Nothing  ever  was  written  so  well. 


TO    THE    IMMORTAL    MEMORY    OF    THE    HALIBUT 
ON     WHITH    I    DINED    THIS    DAY,    MONDAY,     APRIL    '/(J,    178i, 

Where  hast  thou  floated,  in  what  seas  pursued 
Thy  pastime  ?    when  wast  thou  an  egg  new  spawn'd, 
Lost  in  the  immensity  of  ocean's  waste  ? 
Roar  as  they  might,  the  overbearing  winds 
^haf  rock'd  the  deep,  thy  cradle-,  thou  wast  safe — 
And  in  thy  minikin  and  embryo  state, 
Attach'd  to  the  firm  leaf  of  some  salt  weed, 
Diast  outlive  tempests,  such  as  wrung  and  rack'd 
The  joints  of  many  a  stout  and  gallant  bark, 
Ami  whelm'd  them  in  the  unexplored  abyss. 
Indebted  to  no  magnet  and  no  chart, 
Nor  under  guidance  ot  the  polar  h're, 
Tliuu  wast  a  voyager  on  many  coasts, 
Grazing  at  large  in  meadows  submarine, 
Where  Hat  Batavia  just  emerging  peeps 
Above  the  brine — where  Caledonia's  rocks 
Beat  back  the  surge — and  where  Hibernia  shoots 
Her  wondrous  causeway  far  into  the  main. 
— Wherever  thou  hast  fed,  thou  little  thought's, 
And  1  not  more,  that  I  should  teed  on  thee. 
Peace,  therefore,  and  good  health,  and  much  good  fish, 
To  him  who  sent  thee!   and  success,  as  oft 
As  it  descends  into  the  billowy  gulf, 
To  the  same  drag  that  caught  thee  ! — Fare  thee  well! 
Thy  lot  thy  brethren  of  the  slimy  tin 
Would  envy,  could  they  know  that  thou  wast  doom'd 
To  feed  a  bard,  and  to  be  praised  in  verse. 


484 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  STONE 

ERECTFD    AT    THE  SOWING    OF    A     GROVE     OF    OAKS 
AT    CHILLINGTON,   THE   SEAT    OF    T.   G1FFAR0,    ESQ.,    1790 

Other  stones  tre  era  tell 
When  some  teeble  mortal  fell  ; 
1  stand  here  to  date  the  birth 
Of  these  hardy  sons  of  earth. 

Which  shall  longest  brave  the  sky, 
Storm  and  frost — these  oaks  or  1  ? 
Pass  an  age  or  two  away, 
I  must  moulder  and  decay, 
But  the  years  that  crumble  me 
Shall  invigorate  the  tree, 
Spread  its  branch,  dilate  its  size, 
Lift  its  summit  to  the  skies. 

Cherish  honor,  virtue,  truth, 
So  shalt  thou  prolong  thy  youth  : 
Wanting  these,  however  fast 
Man  be  fix'd,  and  torm'd  to  last, 
He  is  lifeless  even  now, 
Stone  at  heart,  and  cannot  grow. 


IN    MEMORY    OF 


THE    LATE    JOHN     THORNTON,    ESQ. 

Poets  attempt  the  noblest  task  they  can, 
Praising  the  Author  of  all  good  in  man, 
Arid,  next,  commemorating  worthies  lost, 
The  dead  in  whom  that  good  abounded  most. 

Thee,  therefore,  of  commercial  fame,  but  more 
Famed  for  thy  probity  from  shore  to  shore, 
Thee,  Thornton  !  worthy  in  some  page  to  shine 
As  honest  and  more  eloquent  than  mine, 
I  mourn  ;  or,  since  thrice  happy  tl,«u  must  be, 
The  world  no  longer  thy  abode,  not  thee. 
Th^e  to  deplore  were  grief  misspent  indeed  ; 
It  were  to  weep  that  goodness  has  its  met-d, 
That  there  is  bliss  prepared  in  yonder  sky, 
And  glory  for  the  virtuous  when  they  die. 


48  J 

"NVhat  pleasure  can  the  miser's  fondled  hoard, 
Or  spentlirin's  prodiual  excels  all'oiil, 
bwt-et  as  t!u-  privilege  of  healing  \\oe 
L>v  virtu  •  sutier'd  combating  below  ; 
That  privilege  was  thine  :  Heaven  gave  thee  means 
To  illumine  with  delight  the  saddest  scenes, 
Till  thy  appearance  chased  the  gloom,  lorlorn 
As  midnight,  and  despairing  of  a  morn. 
Thou  hast  an  industry  in  doing  good, 
Rest'ess  as  his  who  toils  and  sweats  for  foo<l  ; 
Avarice  in  thee  wa-^  the  desire  or  wealth 
By  rust  unperishahle  or  by  stealth, 
And  if  the  genuine  worth  of  gold  depend 
On  application  to  its  noblest  end, 
Thine  h  id  a  value  in  the  scales  of  Heaven 
Surp  issing  all  that  mine  or  mint  had  given. 
And  though  God  made  thee  of  a  nature  prone 
To  distribution  boundless  of  thy  own, 
And  still  by  motives  of  religious  force 
Impell'd  due  more  to  that  h'roic  course, 
Yet  was  thy  liberality  discreet, 
Nice  in  his  choi  e,  and  cf  a  teinper'd  heat  ; 
And  though  in  act  unwearied,  secret  still, 
As  in  some  solitude  the  summer  rill 
Refreshes,  where  it  winds,  the  faded  green, 
Ami  cheers  the  drooping  flowers,  unheard,  unseen, 

buch  was  thy  charity  ;    no  sudden  start, 
A  ter  long  sleep,  of  passion  in  the  heart, 
Bis.  s:ed!'ast  principle,  and,  in  its  kind, 
Or '  e'ose  relation  to  the  Eternal  Mind, 
Traced  easily  to  its  true  source  above, 
To  him  whose  works  bespeak  his  nature,  love. 

Thy  bounties  all  were  Christian,  and  1  make 
This  record  of  thee  for  the  Gospel's  sake  ; 
That  the  incredulous  themselves  may  see 
Its  use  and  power  exemplified  in  thee. 


486 


THE    FOUR    AGES. 
(A  BRIEF  FRAGMENT  OF  AN  EXTENSIVE  PROJECTED   POESj.J 

"  I  could  be  well  content,  allow'd  the  use 
Of  past  experience,  and  the  wisdom  glean'd 
From  worn-out  tollies,  now  acknowledged  such; 
To  recommence  life's  trial,  in  the  hope 
Of  fewer  errors,  on  a  second  proof!" 

Thus,  while  grey  evening  lull'd  the  wind,  and  call'd 
Fresh  odours  from  the  shrubbery  at  my  side, 
Taking  my  lonely  winding  walk,  I  inus'd, 
And  held  accustom'd  conference  with  my  heart  ; 
When  from  within  it  thus  a  voice  replied  : 

"  Oouldst  thou  in  truth  ?   and  art  thou  taught  at  length 
This  wisdom,  and  but  this,  from  all  the  past  ? 
Is  not  the  pardon  of  thy  long  arrear, 
Time  wasted,  violated  laws,  abuse 
Of  talents,  judgment,  mercies,  better  far 
Than  opportunity,  vouchsafed  to  err 
With  less  excuse,  and  haply,  worse  effect  ?" 

I  heard,  and  acquiesced  :  then  to  and  fro 
Oft  pacing,  as  the  mariner  his  deck, 
My  gravelly  bounds,  from  self  to  human-kind 
I  pass'd,  and  next  consider'd — what  is  man  7 

Knows  he  his  origin  ?  can  he  ascend 
By  reminiscence  to  his  earliest  date  ? 
Slept  he  in  Adam  ?     And  in  those  from  him 
Through  numerous  generations,  till  he  found 
At  'ength  his  destined  moment  to  be  born  ? 
Or  was  he  not,  till  fashioned  in  the  womb  ? 
Deep  mysteries  both  !  which  schoolmen  must  have  toil'd 
To  unriddle,  and  have  left  them  mysteries  still. 

It  is  an  evil  incident  to  man, 
And  of  the  worst,  that  unexplored  he  leaves 
Truths  useful  and  attainable  with  ease, 
To  search  forbidden  deeps,  where  mystery  lies 
Not  to  be  solved,  and  useless  if  it  might. 
Mysteries  are  food  for  ange'.s  ;  ti.t-'y  digest 
With  ease,  and  find  them  nutriment ;   but  man, 
While  yet  he  dwells  below,  must  stoop  to  glean 
His  manna  from  the  ground,  or  starve  and  die. 


487 


EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE. 

Here  lies,  whom  bound  did  ne'er  pursue. 

Nor  swifter  greyhound  follow, 
Whose  foot  ne'er  tainted  morning  dew, 

Nor  ear  heard  hunstsman's  hallo' 

Old  Tiney,  surliest  of  his  kind, 
Who,  nurs'd  with  tender  care, 

And  to  domestic  bounds  contin'd, 
Was  still  a  wild  Jack-hare. 

Though  duly  from  my  hend  he  took 

His  pittance  ev'ry  night, 
He  did  it  with  a  jealous  look, 

And,  when  he  could,  would  bite. 

His  diet  was  of  wheaten  bread, 
And  milk,  ai  d  oats,  and  straw; 

Thistles,  or  lettuces  instead, 
With  sand  to  scour  his  maw. 

On  twigs  of  hawthorn  he  regal'd, 

On  pippins'  russet  peel, 
And,  when  his  juicy  salads  fail'd, 

Slic'd  crnot  pleas'd  him  well. 

A  turkey  carpet  was  his  lawn, 

Whereon  he  lov'd  to  bound, 
To  skip  and  gambol  like  a  fawn, 

And  swing  his  rump  around. 

His  frisking  was  at  ev'nina; hours, 

For  th'.Mi  he  lost  his  fear, 
But  most  befoip  approaching  show'rs, 

Or  when  a  storm   drew  near. 


years  and  five  round-rolling  mooni 
He  thus  saw  steal  away, 
Dozing  out  all  his  idle  noons, 
And  ev'ry  night  at  play. 


488 

I  kept  him  for  his  humour's  sake, 

For  he  would  oft  beguile 
My  heart  of  thoughts,  that  made  it  ache* 

And  force  me  to  a  smile. 

But,  now  beneath  his  walnut  shade 
He  rinds  his  long  last  home, 

And  waits,  in  snug  concealment  laid, 
Till  gentler  Puss  shall  come. 

He,  still  more  aged,  teels  the  shocks, 
From  which  no  care  can  save, 

And,  partner  once  of  Tiney's  box, 
Must  soon  partake  his  grave. 


EPITAPH  1UM  ALTERUJT 

Hie  etiam  jacet, 
Qui  totum  novennium  vixit, 

Puss. 

Siste  paulisper, 
Qui  prseteriturus  es, 
Et  tecum  sic  reputa — 
Hunc  needle  car\s  venacitu»8 
Hec  plumGiKu  missile, 

JXec  laqueus, 
Nee  imbres  nimii, 

Confecere : 
Tanien  mortuus 
Et  moriar  ego* 


The  following  Account  of  the  Treatment  of  his  Hares  was  inserted 
by  Mr.  Cowper  in  &e  Gentleman's  Magazine,  whence  it  is 
transcribed. 


Tn  th'  year  1774,  being  much  indisposed  both  in  mind  and 
body,  incapable  of  diverting  myself  either  with  company  or 
books,  and  yet  in  a  condition  that  made  some  diversion  ne- 
cess;iry,  I  wis  glad  of  anything  that  would  engage  my  atten- 
tion without  fatiguing  it.  The  children  of  a  neighbour  of 
mine  had  a  leveret  given  them  for  a  plaything;  it  was  at  that 
time  about  three  months  old.  Understanding  better  how  to 
tease  the  poor  creature  than  to  feed  it,  and  scon  becoming 
we-iry  of  their  charge,  they  readily  consented  that  their  fa- 
ther, who  saw  it  pining  and  growing  leaner  every  day, 
should  offer  it  to  my  acceptance.  I  was  willing  enough 
to  take  the  prisoner  under  my  protection,  perceiving 
th  it,  in  the  management  of  such  an  animal,  and  in  the 
attempt  to  tame  it,  I  should  find  just  that  sort  of  employment 
\vhi  h  my  case  required.  It  was  soon  known  among  the  neigh- 
bours th  it  I  was  pleased  with  the  present:  and  the  conse- 
quence was,  that  in  a  short  time  I  had  as  many  leverets 
offered  to  me  as  would  have  stocked  a  paddock.  1  undertook 
the  care  of  three,  which  it  is  necessary  that  I  should  here  dis- 
tinguish by  the  names  I  gave  them — Puss,  Tiney,  and  Bess. 
Notwithstanding  the  two  feminine  appellatives,  I  must  inform 
you  that  they  were  all  males.  Immediately  commencing 
carpenter,  I  built  them  houses  to  sleep  in ;  each  had  a  sepa- 
rate apartment,  so  contrived,  that  their  ordure  would  pass 
through  the  bottom  of  it;  an  earthen  pan  placed  utider 
each  received  whatsoever  fell,  which  being  duly  emptied 
and  washed,  they  were  thus  kept  perfectly  sweet  and  clean. 
In  the  day-time  they  had  the  range  of  a  hall,  and  at  ui»ht 
retired  each  to  his  own  bed,  never  intruding  into  that  of 
another. 

Puss  orew  presently  familiar,  would  leap  into  my  la]),  raise 
hi'nst  If  upon  his  hinder  feet,  and  bite  the  hair  from  my  tem- 
ples. He  would  suffer  me  to  take  him  up,  and  to  carry  him 
about  in  my«rrns,  and  has  more  than  once  fallen  fast  asleep 
upon  my  knee.  He  was  ill  three  days,  durini>  \vhuh  time  I 
nursed  him.  kept  him  apart  from  his  fellows,  that  t'iey  might 
not  molest  him  (for.  like  -many  other  wild  animals,  they  perse- 
cute one  of  their  own  species  that  is  sick),  and  by  constant 


4PO 

care,  and  trying  him  with  a  variety  of  herbs,  restored  him  k* 
perfect  health.     No  creature  could  be  more    grateful  than  m, 
pauent  after  his  recovery ;  a  sentiment  which  he  most  signif 
can:ly  expressed  by  licking  my  hand,  first  the  back  of  it,  then 
the  palm,  then   every   finger  separately,   then   between  all  the 
fingers,  as  if  anxious  to  leave  no  part  of  it  unsaluted  ;     a  cere- 
mony which  he  never  performed  but  once  again  upon  a  similar 
occasion.       Finding   him  extremely  tractable,  I    made  it   my 
custom  to  carry  him  always  after   breakfast  into  the  garden, 
where  he  hid  himself  generally  under   the    leaves  of  a  cucum- 
ber vine,   sleeping  or  chewing  the   cud  till   evening  ;    in   the 
leaves  also  of   that  vine   he  found  a  favorite  repast.     I   had 
not  long  habituated  him   to  this   taste   of   liberty,    before    he 
began  to  be  impatient  for  the  return  of  the  time  when  lie  nvght 
enjoy  it.      He  would  invite  me  to   the   garden    by   drumming 
upon  my  knee,  and  by  a  look  of  such  expression,  as  it  was  no' 
possible  to  misinterpret.  If  this  rhetoric  did  not  immediately  *u< 
ceed,  he  would  take  the  skirt  of  my  coat  between  his  teeth,  and 
pull  Ht  it  with  all  his  force.  Thus  Puss  might  be  said  to  beperfccr 
ly  tamed,  the  shyness  of  his  nature  was  done  away,  a  id  on  the 
whole   it   was   visible  by  many   symptoms,   which    I    hav°  no 
i"x>m  to  enumerate,  that  he  was  happier  in  human  society,  thar 
wnen  shut  up  with  hi<  natural  companions. 

Not  so  Tiney  :   upon  him  the  kindest  treatment  had  not  t'n<, 
least  effect.      He  too  was  sick,  and  in  his  sickness  had  an  equ; 
share  of  my   attention  ;    but  if,  after  his    recovery,  I  took  tl.e 
liberty  to  stroke  him,  he  would  grunt,  strike  with  his  forefe-t 
spnug  forward,  and  bite.      He  was  however  very  entertaining 
in  his  way  ;  even  his  surliness  was  matter   of  mirth  ;    and   in 
his  phv  he  preserved  such  an  air  of  gravity,  and  pei  formed  his 
feans  with  such  a  solemnity  of  manner,   that  in  him  too  I  had 
an  agreeable  companion. 

Bess,  who  died  soon   after  he   was  full   grown,   and   whosr 
death  was  occasioned  by  his  being  turned  into  his  box,  which 
had  been  washed,  while  it  was  yet  damp,  was  a   hare  of  gre.tt 
humour  and  drollery.     Puss  was  tamed  by  gentle  usaoe  ;  Tinev 
was  not  to  be  tamed  at  all;  and  Bess  had  a  courage  and  conn 
dence  tint  made  him  tame  from  the  beginning.      I  always  ad 
mitre;l    them    into    the    parlor  after  supper,  when,  the  carpet 
affording  their  feet  a  firm  hold,   they  would  frisk,  and  bound 
and  play  a  thousand  gambols,   in  which  Bess,  being  remark?) 
bly  strong  and  fearless,  was  always  superior  to  the  rest,   an  1 
proved  hfmself  the  Vestris  of  the  party.    One  evening  the  c  it 
being   in   the  room,  had  the  hardiness    to  pit    Bess  up  n  the 
cheek,  an  indignity  which  he  resented  by  drumming  upon  h^r 
hack  with  such  violence,  that  the  cat  was  happy  to  escape  ['TOT 
under  his  paws,  and  hide  herself. 

I  describe  these  animals   as  having  each  a  character  of  his 
Such  they  were  in  fact,  and  their  countenances  were  so 


491 

expressive  of  that  character,  that,  when  I  looked  only  on  the 
t.-ici-  oi'  cither,  I  immediately  knew  which  it  was.  It  is  said 
that  a  shepherd,  however  numerous  his  flock,  soon  becomes  so 
familiar  with  their  features,  that  he  can,  by  that  indication 
only,  distinguish  each  from  all  the  rest ;  and  yet,  to  a  common 
•  ibseru-r,  the  difference  is  hardly  perceptible.  I  doubt  not 
rliat  tlie  same  discrimination  in  the  cast  ofcountenances  would  be 
discoverable  in  hares,  and  am  persuaded  that  among  a  thousand 
of  them  i.o  two  could  be  found  exactly  similar:  a  circumstance 
httle  suspected  by  those  who  have  not  had  opportunity  to  ob- 
serve it.  These  creatures  have  a  singular  sagacity  in  discov- 
ering the  minutest  alteration  that  is  made  in  the  place  to 
which  they  are  accustomed,  and  instantly  apply  their  nose  to 
the  examination  of  a  new  object.  A  small  hole  being  burnt 
in  the  carpet,  it  was  mended  with  a  patch,  and  that  patch  in 
a  moment  underwent  the  strictest  scrutiny.  They  seem  too  to 
be  vi  ry  much  directed  by  the  smell  in  the  choice  of  their  fa- 
vourites:  to  some  persons,  though  they  saw  them  dai'y,  they 
co'dd  never  be  reconciled,  and  would  even  scream  when  they 
attempted  to  touch  them;  but  a  miller  coming  in  engaged 
their  affections  at  once ;  his  powdered  coat  had  charir.s  that 
were  i  resistible.  It  is  no  wonder  that  my  intimate  acquaintance 
with  these  specimens  of  the  kind  has  taught  me  to  hold  UK: 
sportsman's  amusement  in  abhorrence;  he  little  knows  whaf 
amiable  creatures  he  persecutes,  of  what  gratitude  they  are  ca- 
pable,  how  cheerful  they  are  in  their  spirits,  what  enjoyment 
they  have  of  life,  and  that,  impressed  as  they  seem  with  a  pecu- 
liar d.-ead  of  man,  it  is  only  because  man  gives  them  a  pecu- 
liar cause  for  it. 

That  I  may  not  be  tedious,  I  will  just  give  a  short  summary 
of  those  articles  of  diet  that  suit  them  best. 

I  take  it  to  be  a  general  opinion  that  they  graze,  but  it  is 
an  erroneous  one,  at  least  grass  is  not  their  staple;  they  "em 
raiaer  to  use  it  medicinally,  soon  quitting  it  for  leaves  of  al- 
most any  kind.  Sowthisile,  dandelion,  and  lettuce,  are  their 
favourite  vegetables,  especially  the  last.  T  discovered  by  ac- 
cident, that  fine  white  sand  is  in  great  estimation  with  them  •, 
I  sap))  >>L.  as  a  digestive.  It  happened  that  I  was  cleaning  a 
a  bird-cige  while  the  hares  were  with  me:  I  placed  a  pot 
Hi  led  with  su-'h  sand  upon  the  floor,  which  being  at  once  di- 
rected to  by  a  strong  instinct,  they  devoured  voraciously  ;  since 
rl:.it  time  i  have  generally  taken  care  to  see  them  well  sup- 
plied with  it.  'Ihey  account  green  corn  a  delicacy,  both  blade 
and  stalk,  but  th  •  ear  they  seldom  eat ;  straw  of  any  kind, 
espt-ci  ;llv  wheat  straw,  is  another  of  their  dainties;  they  will 
f  ;ed  greedily  upon  oats,  but  if  furnished  with  clean  straw  never 
want  them  :  it  serves  them  also  for  a  bed,  and  if  shaken  up 
daily,  will  be  kept  sweet  and  dry  for  a  considerable  time.  They 


412 

do  not  indeed  require  aromatic  herbs,  but  will  eat  a  small 
quantity  of  them  with  great  relish,  and  are  particularly  foiid 
of  the  plant  called  musk;  they  seem  to  resemble  sheep  in  th's, 
that,  if  their  pasture  be  too  succulent,  they  are  very  subject  to 
the  rot;  to  prevent  which,  I  always  ncacle  biead  their  pnn.'i- 
pal  nourishment,  and  filling  a  pan  with  it  cut  into  sir-ill 
squares,  placed  it  every  evening  in  their  chambers,  for  tt  jy 
feed  only  at  evening  and  in  the  night:  during  the  wint-r, 
when  vegetables  were  not  to  be  got,  1  mingled  this  mess  >» 
bread  with  shreds  of  carrot,  adding  to  it  ths  rind  ofapp-s 
cut  extremely  thin  ;  for,  though  they  are  fond  of  the  paiir,?-, 
the  apple  itself  disgusts  them.  These  however  not  being  a 
sufficient  substitute  for  the  juice  of  summer  herbs,  they  inns  , 
at  this  time  be  supplied  with  water;  but  so  placed,  that  rht  y 
cannot  overset  it  into  their  beds.  I  must  not  omit,  that  occa- 
sionally they  are  much  pleased  with  twigs  of  hawthorn,  arii 
of  the  common  brier,  eating  even  the  very  wood  when  it  is  of 
considerable  thickness. 

Bess,  I  have  said,  died  young;  Tiney  lived  to  be  nine  yeais 
old,  and  died  at  last,  1  have  reason  to  think,  of  some  hurt  in 
his  loins  by  a  fall  ;  Puss  is  still  living,  and  has  just  completed 
his  tenth  year,  discovering  no  signs  of  decay,  nor  even  of  age, 
except  that  he  is  grown  more  discreet  and  less  frolicsome  thai: 
he  was.  I  cannot  conclude  without  observing,  that  I  hav ; 
lately  introduced  a  dog  to  his  acquaintance,  a  spaniel  that 
had  never  seen  a  hare,  to  a  hare  that  had  never  seen  a  spaniel 
I  did  it  with  great  caution,  but  there  was  no  real  need  of  it 
Puss  discovered  no  token  of  fear,  nor  Marquis  the  least  symp- 
toms of  hostility.  There  is  therefore,  it  should  seem,  no  natu- 
ral antipathy  between  dog  and  hare,  but  the  pursuit  of  the 
one  occasions  the  flight  of  the  other,  and  the  dog  pursues 
because  he  is  trained  to  it ;  they  eat  bread  at  the  same  time 
out  of  the  same  hand,  and  are  in  all  respects  sociable  and 
friendly. 

I  should  not  do  complete  justice  to  my  subject,  did  1  not 
add,  that  they  have  no  ill  scent  belonging  to  them,  that  they 
are  indefatigably  nice  in  keeping  themselves  clean,  for  which 
purpose  nature  has  furnished  them  with  a  brush  under  each 
foot,  and  that  they  are  never  infested  by  any  vermin. 

May  18,  1784. 

Memorandum  found  among  Mr.  Cowper's  papers.  . 

Tuesday,  March  9,  1786. 

This  day  died  poor  Puss,  aged  eleven  years  eleven  months. 
He  died  between  twelve  and  one  at  noon,  of  mere  old  age, 
and  apparently  without  pain. 

THE   END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


Ittw 


JUN     g     • 


REC'D 


Ml  7 '65 -4PM 


JBH9  '61    3 


• 


JUN    8  1 


41962 


T 


LD  21A-50m-12,'60 

"- 


General  Library 
University  of  California 


